


Changed

by HeDidCare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Confusion, Fluffy, Homeless Network, M/M, Memory Loss, Moriarty - Freeform, Moriarty betrayed, Moriarty loves Sherlock, Moriarty's sisters, Sherlocks suicide, The Fall - Freeform, couldnt be bothered actually editing this, late night story writing.., sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 22,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeDidCare/pseuds/HeDidCare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has his Memory removed after a few to may drinks, by a woman he should never have trusted, and given a new identity. - Sherlock tries to keep his sanity after losing his best friend and more, - to blank memories. Moriarty's determined to have Sherlock - whatever the cost. Meanwhile John/Arthur - has to once more come to terms with the feelings he has, for everyone.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first Fanfic i'vre posted to this site, but I do alot of reading here. Please be forgiving.  
> My friend DWSH1DST kindly provided me with the first chapter, so THANKS! LOVE YA!  
> Everything belongs to BBC and the geniuses Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Love them forever.  
> Please leave your critique's as they are always helpful.

Arthur opened his eyes. His body felt heavy against the sheets and the duvet felt heavy against his stomach. He moved his arms and legs around, stretching the stiff muscles. He slowly moved his hands to his eyes and rubbed them sleepily. He rolled over onto his side and curled his legs to stomach, closing his eyes.

                He opened eyes again when he felt the bed move beside him. He heard a tired sigh and a hand found his shoulder, rubbing his sore muscles. Lips were pressed in between his shoulder blades and he slowly turned over. A girl with long blonde hair and soft brown eyes smiled at him. Arthur frowned at her.

                “Good morning,” She said in a low voice. Arthur continued to stare at her. “Did you sleep alright?” She frowned at him in concern. “Are you OK?”

                “Who are you? Where am I?” Arthur croaked out, craning his head to look around the room. The girl sat up, pulling the blankets with her to cover her bare chest.

                “I’m Rebecca. This is my apartment.” Rebecca said, her forehead still creased with concern.

                “Rebecca?” Arthur asked. Rebecca nodded. “I don’t know any Rebecca’s.” He muttered to himself.

                “Well, we only met last night.” Rebecca said, smiling as she ran a smooth hand down his arms.

                “Last night?” Arthur asked. Rebecca nodded. “Where were we? I don’t remember anything.”

                “You were pretty wasted. I’m surprised you were able to stay awake at all.” Rebecca said with a sly grin.

                Arthur sat up. A shooting pain radiated through his head and he groaned. He cradled his head in his hands until the pain subsided slightly.

                “Are you alright?” Rebecca asked.

                Arthur ignored her and looked around for his clothes. He grabbed his pants and quickly pulled them on, followed by his trousers, shirt and jacket. He grabbed his socks and shoes, putting them on before testing out his legs. They held and he took off towards the door, leaving a very confused Rebecca in the bed.

                Arthur found an elevator and headed out of the building. He pushed open the door, squinting against the blinding sunlight. His head started pounding at the bustling noise of the city and he looked around.

                People were milling around him; men in suits carrying briefcases, woman in stylish jeans, mums carrying small children and pushing prams. Some speed-walking, others just enjoying the sun.

                Arthur grabbed the arm of a young girl walking past.

                “Excuse me, where am I?” He croaked out, clearing his throat soon afterwards. The girl frowned and cocked her head sideways.

                “London.” She said. Arthur frowned.

                “England?” He asked. She nodded and Arthur looked around. He slowly let go of the girls arm and dug around in his jacket pockets for a few seconds. He pulled out a wallet and quickly opened it, looking inside. “Do you know where this place is?” He asked, pointing to an address written on a piece of paper.

The girl took the paper from him and studied it. She nodded. “Yeah, sure. That’s just a few block from here.” She pointed to his right. “Would you like me to help you get there?” Arthur looked around the city again and shook his head.

“No… no that’s fine. Thank you very much.” He said, already walking in the direction she had directed him in.

“You’re welcome.” The girl said, frowning after the tall stranger as he stalked off into the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

Lilly was smiling as she stepped out of the elevator. “Becca?” She shouted through the sex smelling apartment.

“I'm in the shower!” Becca called back. Lilly could tell she was grinning – that’s the problem with a sisterly bond, sometimes you know too much.

Becca smashed around in the bathroom for a bit before managing to claw her way to the dining table, and gladly take the cup of coffee Lilly held out to her. They were silent for a few moments before Lilly risked facing the subject head on.

“Becca... the guy I met on the street just now, was he another experiment?” Lilly asked cautiously. Becca had a large temper just like their older brother Jim and she didn’t want to be the next target for her anger.

Becca eyed Lilly wearily. “Yes. I reprogrammed him almost completely. And by the standard I've set so far, he's definitely the most inquisitive.” Becca said, smiling evilly into her cup.

Lilly admired Becca's genius, but at the same time felt sorry for the poor guy who didn’t even know his name or where he lived. Lilly finished her cereal in silence. Meanwhile, Becca had since gotten up, opened the safe and was working on some formulas for last night’s experiment.

It wasn’t hard to realise Becca had been laid last night. Not when the whole family had inherited god-like genes, but Becca seemed to particularly enjoy last night and she was reviewing photos of the poor guy with a lustful interest.

“What was his real name?” Lilly asked, putting on her hard voice so that her sister would think she approved of her playing around with human DNA.

“John Wilton. No… wait… John Watson. He flats at a place near here, I think. Let me see...” She muttered almost to herself as she searched through her extensive files on her new subject. “Uh… lives with a consulting detective named… Sherlock Holmes. Unusual name, don’t you think?” She added for her own benefit. “He lives at 221B Baker Street.” Becca grinned wickedly.

Lilly predicted the way this conversation would now flow from the way her mouth kept being dragged into her pitiless smile. She saved Becca and herself sometimes.

“So, tell me about John Watson.” She said, keeping the hesitation out her voice. Becca almost purred with satisfaction.

“Well, it’s not even about him. It’s about ... Jim.” She said, in a world of her own. Lilly's ears pricked.

“Jim? I know Jims bi, but surely you didn’t take this John guy so that Jim couldn’t have him!” Lilly rushed, knowing it would have serious repercussions if this was the case.

“No darling! Jim wants Sherlock. I just wanted to prove to Jim I know what I’m doing.” Becca said grinning. Becca had a tendency to believe that Jim looked down on her, despite Becca's genius when it came to genetics and the brain. Lilly shrugged and nodded her head, waiting for Becca to continue. “Well, basically, I picked him up at a bar he goes to every weekend and simply injected him. He went to sleep, I took a cab here with him, told the driver he was drunk. The drive helped me get him upstairs. I played with him awhile, rewrote his memories and gave him a new name and look. Then… I really played with him! When he woke up, he retrieved an address from his wallet and left - thinking his name was Arthur!”

“What about his cards? He would have been able to get his real name from them!” Lilly cut in, knowing her sister had a tendency to make small mistakes.

“Not to worry my dear little sister! I removed all the cards from his wallet. And, you wanna know the best bit?”

“Um… if it’s...I don’t think...” Lilly stammered, he cheeks turning bright red.

“What? No! Not that! I would never tell anyone that! No, no, no, the best bit is I tattooed ‘Moriarty’ onto his shoulder blade so that detective flatmate will think its Jim! And Jim will lose!” Becca giggled, verging on hysterical.

Lilly went white. “No! You know how mad Jim will get! If he wants something, he has to have it! If you took his only chance at a game with Sherlock, I-I don’t think it would end well!” Lilly almost shouted, losing her cool. Becca was a bit shocked because Lilly never lost her cool but she just shrugged and turned away, grabbing at the files and humming Beethoven’s 5th symphony under her breath.

For an IQ of 189, Becca was incredibly stupid. Lilly just shook her head and headed to her room.

She fell onto the bed and stared around her at the empty walls. The only things her room contained were her desk, a closet, and her mattress and blankets.

She was not a normal child by any standards. The wheels of her mind began turning, and she began filing away information, things that would help her at a later date. She felt the walls shake a little, knew that it meant that someone was coming up their elevator. Knowing who it would be she reached into her closet and began packing.

Her brother wouldn’t leave her behind, but she knew deep down that only she and Jim would be leaving. Lilly packed her bag and sat on the bed, turning up the piano pieces in her head, and tried to tune out the animal like noises down the hall.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock paced the length of the living room, waiting for John to come home. From the way John had been acting last night, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be picking up any women and therefore when he did not return, Sherlock had a right to be alarmed.

He paced the room in his sheet and couldn’t be bothered changing. If John did not show up by lunch time, he would alert the homeless network. They would be much more efficient in finding him than Lestrade and his men He especially didn’t want Anderson to be the one finding him.

He continued pacing, allowing his mind to wonder; to unlock the doors of rooms that had been long closed in his mind and access the folders containing men and women who were stupid enough to pose a threat to him and his companion.

There were many names, as he predicted and he put this down to the fact that there where many stupid people in the world. Nothing immediately popped out at him, and he lay on the floor staring at the ceiling for a few hours, correlating enemies with resent crimes. He decided who was in town, and who would have taken John - if he had been, in fact, taken.

At the precise moment he was finishing up his search and locking the door in his mind palace, there was a soft knock on the door downstairs. He predicted that Mrs. Hudson was tending the shop as she hadn’t come upstairs to check on him and John yet today.

Sherlock got up in a huff and ran down the stairs and to the door. He pulled it open in a vicious manner and prepared himself for a parcel containing one of Johns severed fingers or a mobs errand boy requesting him to get in a car with them if he wanted to see John alive again. He practically snarled at the man, still holding his hand in a knocking pose.

Sherlock almost collapsed.

He was certainly startled more than he cared to say. John was standing looking blank and afraid.

With black hair.

“John?” Sherlock asked, confused by his appearance. “What have you done to your hair?”

“Is this 221B Baker Street? I found the address in my wallet. Uh… I’m Arthur.” John said in a shaky voice.

Sherlock took in his appearance. His hair was sticking up, and he was hunched slightly, as if he was having pain in his right shoulder. His blank face for once showed nothing, but upon a glance at his shoes and the back of his trousers he knew exactly what had happened. Nobody, let alone someone Sherlock had faced, had ever been so bold as to take the one thing that made Sherlock happy. And yet here John was, with no idea who he was, standing on his doorstep looking like a zombie.

He made a split second decision and smiled at John, still standing bewildered in the doorway. “Arthur! How good it is to see you! You look wonderful!” Sherlock said, knowing the real John would have hit him by now. He pulled John into a bone crushing hug, and John eventually melted into him, obviously finding comfort in thinking he'd found a close friend or relative to help him though his memory block.

“Please come in, have a seat and I'll make tea.” Sherlock said.

John sat down and picked up an old paper, in the exact way he usually would. The only difference being when he remarked in surprise at something new, and yet Sherlock knew John had made the exact same remarks when he read the same paper a few days earlier. He finished with the blasted tea and sat opposite his friend.

“Arthur, you may not remember my name, I'm Dr. John Watson. I'm your doctor and you live with me, upstairs. You suffer from amnesia from an old war wound in your shoulder. I’m going to need to run a few tests and we may have to go to Bart's hospital. Is that alright?” Sherlock asked. He said it in such a tender voice he even surprised himself.

John smiled and nodded, soaking up every bit of the lie. Sherlock shuddered at the thought of somebody messing with John’s brain, but he would find out who it was and destroy them. He already had a fairly good clue of where John had been before his apparent memory loss.

Sherlock had noted the cut at the back of his head, which to an average person, would be conceived as just a cut from falling over, but in reality in ran a lot deeper than it look and straight into the hippocampus, the chamber containing memories.

The way John had climbed the stairs to the apartment indicated that someone had taken sexual advantage of him while he was in a comatose state. Sherlock became enraged and retreated to his mind palace to retrieve the one file he needed.

Rebecca Moriarty.


	4. Chapter 4

Jim allowed himself, for the first time ever, to be at the front line of a crime. After tying Becca to the bench and glad wrapping her body down, he covered the floors with sheets of plastic. He, of course, was wearing a full body suit so that not even a single dead skin cell would touch the floor. He also donned a hairnet and elbow length and even glasses covering his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to get blood in them when he cut Becca's jugular out.

Becca was whimpering beneath the duct tape that covered her mouth and stopped her from screaming. Becca knew it was Jim and that in itself caused her a great shock when he stepped out of the elevator and into their flat.

He was much stronger than Becca, despite his weedy appearance and easily overpowered her. His rage was slowly boiling over and causing his hands to go pale with longing. He longed for the feel of skin being pounded under them, but he managed to stay calm. Deciding that all was in place, he slowly walked around the apartment, and took all the files that even whispered the name Sherlock, as well as all of John's files.

He walked back over to the bench where Becca was franticly trying to escape and smiled down at her. She took one look at the knife he was holding casually and began silently screaming. She knew Jim was not a merciful brother and had quickly learnt to be submissive when he was around. But taking John Watson and playing around with him had enraged Jim, knowing full well that Sherlock would stop at nothing to right the wrongs done to his small companion which ultimitly meant heat would be upon him pretty soon.

“You _are_ the weakest link.” He hissed in her ear, sounding suspiciously like Anne Robinson. He took a nice steady breath and brought the knife to Becca's throat. Tears streamed down the sides of her face, and he was appalled by her weak display.

Even though she had a high IQ and was considered the smartest by many, she was incredibly stupid and he and Lilly were much smarter. Thinking of Lilly, he took the knife away from the unbroken skin on Becca's neck and left for Lilly's room.

He had always loved Lilly. She was both smart and beautiful. He pushed open the door to her room and saw her sitting with her suitcase beside her on the mattress and a book in her hands. It was about the history of dictatorship in the Middle East. Jim placed his glasses onto the top of his head and smiled.

“How are you Lilly?” He beamed happily.

She stood up and smiled. “Good! Although the bloody university has no idea what it’s teaching in chemistry. Even the history teacher is getting his facts muddled up. How are you?” She replied hugging him.

He put the knife in the pocket of his body suit, happy to have delightful conversation with his wonderful little sister. “I'm fabulous, besides that mess.” He said, gesturing towards the kitchen where Becca was with his head. “My, how you've grown!” He giggled.

“Shut up! I haven’t even grown. All the other girls won’t shut up about how they feel all tall and skinny and here I am...” She said looking down at her curvy nineteen year old body.

Jim shrugged. “You look beautiful, you know that.” He said smiling.

“You really should get back in there and finish the job.” Lilly said quietly after a few moments.

Jim nodded, getting the distinct feeling she didn’t approve. Although Lilly lacked the feeling gene she had a strong moral code. Jim liked to think that he built it into her. “Yeah I know. Man, she's such a pain! I'll have to send some of my cleaning crew to dispose of everything after.” He replied as an afterthought.

“Why not dispose of the body yourself? Means less people to kill once the body's gone.” Lilly replied, shrugging her shoulder and letting her smartness show.

“I would, but I'll be busy with...” He trailed off, unsure how much her magnificent brain had pieced together.

“I'm sure you'll still have a chance with him.” She said gently. Jim’s anger rekindled. Because of Becca's stupid night of fun, he would never have a chance at the incredible mind of Sherlock Holmes, the man he was convinced he felt a spark for. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders at Lilly. He then lowered his glasses and pulled the knife back out.

“Oh, before you go do it - just a though - what if we just wiped her memory and turned her mute? We'd just have to dump her outside a hospital and she'd live as a bum the rest of her life with no recollection of anything. Plus, it means no cleaning crew, and you get to use them on other projects before getting rid of them.” Lilly said, her voice showing she liked the idea more and more as she talked about it.

Jim turned back and glanced around her room, she reminded him of himself back when he was a teenager. Soft spoken until she observed something that would genuinely help. “Well done Lilly! You can do the procedure, I assume?” He asked and she nodded. “Good. I'll transfer her files to my vehicle. I’ll fetch you when I’m done. We can dump her at St Bart’s. It's far enough from here that they won’t even find this apartment for months.”

Lilly nodded. They switched jobs and Lilly left her room in the suit and glasses while Jim took her suitcase and his knife back down to the car, coming back only to collect the files. The final trip he made inside the apartment was to drag out his unconscious and stupid sister with Lilly.

They placed her in the backseat and Lilly changed out of the suit. Jim watched Lilly from the corner of his eye. At just nineteen, she was displaying as much smarts as him. He grinned wickedly. There was no need for her to go back to university; instead he would train her as his successor while enjoying the time spent with his favored family member. Jim turned on the stereo and blasted them with Beethoven’s 5th. 


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur noticed that a particularly nice woman named Molly kept watching him with an expression of concern on her face. She quietly spoke with Dr. Watson, who kept his face blank. It couldn’t be that bad if Arthur’s own Doctor wasn’t very concerned.

Arthur recalled feeling relieved at the flat when Dr. Watson had introduced himself. He sounded so familiar and Arthur knew immediately that the tall dark haired man could be trusted. After full body examination by Dr. Watson in the St Bart’s hospital and an MRI, Arthur was able to leave the hospital with the doctor.

They returned to the flat, but the doctor stopped in his tracks when he noticed an old woman entering their flat before they reached the door. Arthur prepared for a faceoff with this random old woman who was breaking into their flat.

“Wait here... Arthur.” The doctor had said before walking the ten feet to the door and talking quietly to the woman. She nodded and looked a bit flabbergasted. Eventually Dr. Watson turned back to Arthur and waved him over.

“Arthur, this is Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. Do you remember her?” Dr. Watson asked Arthur slowly. Arthur shook his head in frustration. Why the hell was it him with amnesia? How many times had this happened? How many times had Dr. Watson repaired his life after he forgot it all?

Arthur abruptly began to cry and took solace in hugging the doctor. Arthur wrapped his arms around Dr. Watson’s skinny chest and twisted his arms through the large black coat the doctor seemed to favor.

Dr. Watson stiffened but eventually gave in and hugged Arthur back. Arthur felt lost and alone; he was a fully grown man and he had no idea who he even was. Eventually, Arthur pulled back from the embrace, his tears drying on his cheeks.

“I'm sorry. I just… hate not knowing who I am.” Arthur said sheepishly before turning and heading upstairs to his room.

He slammed the door and collapsed on the bed trying to remember any details from his previous few days, from his previous life. He could only conjure up images of Dr. Watson. He heard movement down below and realized that Dr. Watson must have finally come inside. Arthur reviewed the facts he knew so far.

  * He lived with a tall dark haired man named John Watson.
  * His name was Arthur.
  * His landlady was Mrs. Hudson.
  * He lived at 221B Baker Street.
  * He suffered reoccurring amnesia - most likely from trauma during the war in Afghanistan.



Arthur stopped for a moment then leapt out of bed. “JOHN!” He shouted as he ran down the stairs.

“What? What is it?” Sherlock replied quickly. After the short run down the stairs, he emerged in the lounge where Dr. Watson was on the couch in a dressing gown and pajama pants. Arthur stared a moment, shocked at the sight of his doctor dressed so casually. He was lying with his back on the seat of the couch and his bum against the back, texting.

Arthur swallowed. “I.. uh, I was thinking about things that I knew so far, and I somehow knew that my amnesia and that I'd been in the Afghanistan war.” Arthur said slowly, flustered that the doctor was lazily tapping his fingers and muttering at the smoke patches on his arm.

“Most interesting... Arthur.” He mumbled. “I will add it to your files. Probably just a memory due to the fact I've explained the same thing to you previously.” He replied casually, but starting a new text at the same time.

“Oh, alright, I, uh… for a minute I thought I'd actually had medical training of some kind!” Arthur laughed, shaking his head and sitting down. Dr. Watson looked up sharply, staring at Arthur with his striking eyes. His cheek twitched slightly before he continued texting. Arthur began to feel awkward when the a few seconds of silence turned into minutes. Finally, he spoke up.

“Sorry about the hug thing before... I was upset.” He said quietly. Sherlock stopped moving for moment, then nodded and went back to texting. Arthur concluded he must have had a lot of friends. Or a girlfriend.

“Are you texting your Mrs.?” Arthur asked in a coy voice. Sherlock looked at him alarmed, then in a seemingly tender way. Arthur stared at him a moment before letting out a slight gasp. Of course, the way Dr. Watson walked so casually around the apartment. He must be gay. It was obvious!

Then Arthur had an afterthought and almost had a panic attack.

“Wait! Am I... Am I... Are we...?” Arthur stammered to an amused Dr. Watson.

“Gay? Is that the term you’re looking for?” Dr. Watson supplied. Arthur nodded, not meeting his gaze.

“No, you’re not gay. No, I'm not texting my girlfriend. I don’t have one.” Arthur let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief. Sherlock smirked and put his phone down, looking at Arthur. “I think it’s time for some memory recall tests.” He said slowly. Arthur nodded but couldn’t stop his cheeks being so red.


	6. Chapter 6

Lilly felt the loss of her sister. Although she wasn’t dead, Lilly would never talk with her again. At least not in a sisterly way. They had dumped her unconscious body across the street from St Bart’s and left. Jim had looked in the rear mirror and turned around when he noticed a couple of men leaving the hospital, he'd turned the car and driven past slowly, yet without alerting their attention. Lilly immediately recognized the man she had spoken to outside the apartment.

John Watson.

He was short on close inspection. The man he was following seemed pleased to have such power over the man and he obviously couldn’t remember much, if anything. Jim watched them intently as he passed with the car, although his gaze was focused on the tall man, whom she assumed to be Sherlock Holmes.

Lilly photographed them in her mind and locked the thoughts away in a folder for later. They drove in silence and eventually ended up in an underground car park. They left the car, taking their things and transferring them into two separate cars. Jim handed over a set of keys and a piece of paper.

“Your new living arrangement,” He said fondly, while helping Lilly with her bags.

She was the only person he would ever lift a finger for. She hugged him before getting in the car, she waved goodbye and left, her new Mercedes creating a nice purr in the underground garage. It took her half an hour to drive to her new place on the east side of London.

It was a beautiful two story brick house at the end of the street. She easily picked the lock, and entered. There was a suitcase full of cash and a new identity on the kitchen table. She unpacked her things in the second story master bedroom, while putting a frozen pizza from the freezer in the oven to cook for lunch.

Jim had explained in the car that she wouldn’t have to go back to university and she had thanked him profusely, remaining happy for the rest of the trip. And now he had gifted her with such a beautiful house. He was the closest she could ever have to a friend, and the blood bond they shared made them even closer.

She finished unpacking and sat alone at the kitchen table eating the pizza. She pulled out her phone and sent a text to him. Just to let him know how grateful she was.

_Thanks for the house and car, love you lots! Call in anytime. I've made a room for you for whenever you need it. Lilly xx_

She retrieved her new laptop from upstairs and began to research John Watson. He deserved an explanation for his sudden memory loss. She just wouldn’t be as stupid as Becca and get in the way of Jim. She wouldn’t suffer the wrath of his temper. She would send a note or something to explain what happened to John.

She found his blog and settled in, profiling all the information she found. After a few hours she relised why Jim was so protective of the detective. He was as much a genius as her and Jim, the difference being he was on the side of the ‘angels’ as her and Jim referred to normal people.

She knew she would have a lot of fun with this Sherlock Holmes if Jim could get close to him. Jim was a predator and he had to have any meat he took a fancy to. Last year, it was a high class prostitute named Irene Adler, but something had happened and she'd disappeared. Now he was infatuated, it would seem, with this Sherlock Holmes character.

She knew how she could repay her brother for the many kindness he'd extended to her. She would get him Sherlock Holmes. 


	7. Chapter 7

Rebecca Moriarty was the one responsible for John Memory loss. It hadn’t taken long to locate her. Somebody had replicated the exact same procedure on her, even better, and dumped her outside St Bart’s hospital, she had been picked up a few moments after he and John had left. He'd been letting Mycroft know all he knew and while Sherlock worked on the ‘who’, Mycroft was working on the ‘how’, as in, how to undo the effects of the procedure.

Sherlock scolded himself when he turned the memory loss into a game for himself, thanks to a stupid decision he made to pretend to be John, to John. John had even gone to the extent of hugging Sherlock and thinking he himself was gay to Sherlock’s amusement and John’s embarrassment.

The evening had been uneventful, even after the memory provokers. He recalled long term memories a little but he was in no way able to remember the events of the last year, much to Sherlock’s displeasure. He had finally been making headway with John and then they’d gotten into an argument about body parts in the fridge and John had left for a bar and alcohol.

John had never held alcohol well and his last excursion had resulted in the loss of his memory. The tattoo he had seen on John’s back during the body examination confirmed his worst suspicions. Although he knew Rebecca was the perpetrator of the crimes against John, Sherlock knew she was trying to frame another member of her family.

Jim Moriarty.

Jim had been on Sherlock’s radar for a long while, he was a genius like Sherlock but he squandered his talent on the criminal underworld, orchestrating the more brutal crimes in London, and in most places around the world. Even with Sherlock’s intelligence and considerable resources, he was yet to catch Jim.

You only had to mention his name to criminals and they would leave you and the area alone. It wasn’t the name Jim though, it was the last name. Moriarty. That’s what was now tattooed onto the back of John’s bad shoulder. He would be permanently marked with a name that strikes fear into everyone, even Mycroft. Sherlock shuddered.

He'd encountered Moriarty many times, even in the previous year helping The Woman escape from his far reaching clutches. When he and Moriarty had met, he'd beaten him, and yet allowed to live. From which a criminal such as Moriarty meant only one thing.

Moriarty was emotionally attached to Sherlock.

This he suspected is the reason Rebecca Moriarty now had no idea who she was; because Moriarty had destroyed her memories like John’s. It was a power play, showing anyone and everyone that they weren’t to touch the inhabitants of 221B. They were Moriarty's property. He'd gone so far as to get rid of his sister, in a most cruel way. Her intelligence would be wasted.

Although Sherlock recognized she was quite an idiot, she had brains, but not enough to know what to do with them. Aside from what she did to John. Sherlock sighed and paced the room. John had long since gone to bed but Sherlock remained up, processing information. Sherlock’s phone vibrated and he picked it up. It was Mycroft.

 

_There is a way but you must find the perpetrator of Johns memory loss. They will have the code for John’s genes. Using that you can return his old memories. Could be dangerous. Be careful little brother, mother would be most upset if you were to get yourself killed._

_MH._

Sherlock read the text and filed it away. There were currently three people in London that could have performed the procedure; himself, Jim Moriarty, or Lilly Moriarty. And he certainly didn’t do it. Sherlock sighed and opened his laptop. He's going to have to track Moriarty's movement and find out where he'd stashed his sister.


	8. Chapter 8

Jim anxiously watched the video monitor in his bedroom. The video, collected earlier that night, showed Sherlock through his windows pacing back and forth, obviously deep in thought. It had pained Jim when he saw how affected Sherlock was by the technical “loss” of his friend. He was now just an idiot named Arthur.

Jim had searched through Becca's files and found out a lot about the small companion of Sherlock’s. For instance, he was allergic to dogs. Of course John wouldn’t even know that about himself anymore.

Jim turned the TV off and instead went to his forth burner phone. He always had four different phones every single day; business, pleasure, personal, and family. And at the end of each day, they were all incinerated.

Jim read Lilly's text happily. She would make an excellent apprentice. He typed out a quick ‘you’re welcome’ and left his room. He had a business meeting with a low time drug lord. Then he would sleep. And in his sleep he would be able to suss out what to do about John.

Should he help John for Sherlock? Or just let Sherlock dance for him? A sad lonely dance. Jim grinned gleefully and changed into his gray suit. It would be a long night as this particular drug lord was as thick as they came. He hadn’t even realized his own body guards where now Jim’s men. Unless he complied with Jim’s ‘request’ to move more cocaine on the east side warehouses, he would disappear for good.

Jim sighed and left the house, opting to use the bus. Nobody glanced twice at him except for the young child sitting opposite him. If he was in a crowd, he was always fascinated that any children knew his true self and yet adults seemed oblivious to it.

Jim got off the bus after a few blocks, but slipped a few hundred dollars into the child’s lap before getting out. The young boy's eyes widened but he said nothing and immediately hid the money from his snooty looking mother. Jim grinned to himself and walked into the last warehouse on the block.

“Ah, Moriarty. Finally.” The fat man drawled. He had piercings all over and looked very much like a biker, except for the green suit he wore.

Moriarty kept his face like stone. “You'll move this month’s shipment to the east docks.” He said immediately, checking his perfectly manicured nails. The drug lord took a step back and clenched his knuckles.

“But we've been having problems over there; our shipments are too big to transfer - especially all at once. You'll get the cops all over the place!” He said angrily, reaching in his coat for a weapon. At least he was smart enough to realize that this could only end in a fight already.

Moriarty sighed. “You really shouldn’t!” He said in a calm yet threatening voice. He knew it was pointless getting in a fight that would only end in the other man’s death. Moriarty snapped his fingers and one of the man’s body guards stepped forward.

“Kill him!” the drug lord shouted, pointing a fat finger at Moriarty.

“No. Use the knife Manuel. I want to watch.” Moriarty said with an evil grin, his bloody instincts becoming excited. The body guard turned to his boss.

“No! You work for me! Kill him!” He screamed as Manuel plunged the knife through his ribcage and into his lung. All sound ceased and Moriarty watched fascinated as ever as the man died.

“Dismember him and appoint a new lord who will actually follow orders Manuel. Leave the body parts in here, and abandon the factory.” Moriarty replied after a while.

He left the building and took the waiting vehicle to his temporary house. It had been a glorious evening, the pleasure of watching an idiot die and the pleasure of realizing how he would distract Sherlock. He would make his man happy. He would. 


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur was stunned with the tattoo on his back. The word was weird but it must have meant something for him to have gotten it. He was getting more and more frustrated not knowing though. Dr. Watson had left Arthur alone in the apartment, so he'd started going through any of his old stuff, to try and figure out who he was.

By the time the doctor returned, Arthur had a large box of things sitting beside him on the couch and he was waiting angrily beside it, his arms folded over his chest. Dr. Watson eyed the box wearily and swore under his breath.

“Care to explain? What the hell is this? Did I steal your name or something? All this crap in here says I'm the doctor, and you’re some wacko named Sherlock!” Arthur shouted angrily.

He watched the doctor take the shouting placidly, before he began rapidly pacing up and down the room. “At this point, I rather doubt you'd believe anything I tell you. But if you give me eight minutes precisely, I will tell you the truth.” Dr. Watson said, staring at Arthur with a concerned expression.

Arthur nodded eventually, and the doctor quickly sent three texts before sitting down opposite Arthur.

“I will tell you much before Lestrade, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson get here.” He began, but Arthur cut him off.

“What the hell have they got to do with me stealing your name? And why the hell does everyone actually believe I'm you? According to the newspaper clippings in here, I’ve completely assumed your identity! Oh, and while I’m talking, I may as well ask about the stupid tattoo on my back! What or who is it?” Arthur shouted, feeling awkward and angry all at once.

Dr. Watson was looking completely serious, but Arthur detected a definite air of uncomfortableness passing off the Doctor. “Well, the tattoo was made by the only man in the world that comes close to my intelligence. His name is Moriarty. He’s the most dangerous man you'll ever meet. You didn’t steal my name; I stole yours.” He paused for a second and let the information sink in before continuing. “I took advantage of your memory loss and pretended to be you. Truthfully, you are Dr. John Hamish Watson.” He said in an even tone, not showing any outward signs of remorse.

“What the hell?” Arthur screamed. “Why the hell would you...What the bloody hell do you mean 'memory loss'? You mean it’s not reoccurring amnesia?” The dark haired man eyed him wearily, as if he was used to shouting matches with him.

“Not reoccurring amnesia, no. It’s forced memory loss, in the hippocampus, of course. Where else would it be?” The man scoffed. “I am Sherlock Holmes. We have been living together for the last year. You’re my... well, your anything I need. You assist me in solving crimes using your medical expertise, and you fetch the milk.” He said with a smirk.

“I could move out! I don’t need to stay here. Why the hell would you steal my identity?” Arthur said, feeling slightly calmer.

“I stole it because I was bored and at the time it helped. And you can’t afford to move out.” They heard footsteps on the stairs and looked to see who it was. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson, the first of our guests.” Sherlock said, motioning to Arthur’s left he glanced over and sure enough, here was the old woman smiling as if all was swell.

“Sherlock! Look at the mess you made on the mantel! Have you told Albert? No, sorry, Arthur – that’s the name she gave him wasn't it?” The old woman asked, tittering around and moving and shifting random things.

“What woman?” Arthur asked, frowning in confusion.

“Rebecca Moriarty. You stayed at her apartment the other night. She was the one who took your memories. She's essentially a vegetable now, no help whatsoever. But her brother, well he holds the key to reversing your memory.” Sherlock said, getting excited and leaping off the couch happily.

“So, all this...is ... is all reversible? It doesn’t make sense! Aside from Mrs. Hudson, what proof do you have?” John said, in a terrifyingly quiet voice.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked, coming over and grabbing John’s wrist, feeling for his pulse.

“Oi, let go of me! You’re not a doctor remember? I am and I assure you, I'm... fine.” John said, realizing he'd stopped thinking of himself as Arthur. Despite not wanting to, he trusted the tall skinny man with the dark curly hair. He had a confident and intelligent air about him, that demanded at the very least your respect. And now, somehow, John’s trust. 


	10. Chapter 10

It didn't take a strenuous effort to write up a simple letter explaining her sister’s misdeeds. After making a draft, and typing it on the typewriter from the large houses closet, Lilly burnt the original and addressed the letter to John Watson. It was always difficult for Lilly to be so unfeeling in Jim’s presence, but on her own territory she was perfectly content.

It didn't take a lot much effort to tip a homeless man a few hundred quid to take a cab to 221B Baker Street and deliver the explanation to John Watson. She sipped at her tea contently, and waited for the text from her brother. If he found out about her sending the note, she would receive a text with his immediate reaction.

If he didn't realize the homeless man was not part of Sherlock’s humongous network - and put two and two together to realize the man was there for the handsome blonde man - she would be fine. And Jim would be none the wiser. It would be win/win for everyone. No guilt on her conscience, and John would learn the truth.

She finished her tea, and muttered a sigh of relief. Jim hadn’t found out or he would have made contact. Lilly got up and pulled on a summer dress, not bothering with a bra or panties. Instead, she enjoyed the feeling of freedom, and walked down the street feeling free. She knew she was good looking, but thinking practically, this was very bad for her eventual line of business. Nobody would take a childlike looking girl seriously, and she would never escape notice in crowds.

Men would always watch her with lustful gazes and it irritated her to no end which was why she had to prove herself. She used her brains and her body to get where she needed, but ultimately her favored toy was a set of throwing knives Jim had gotten her for her sixth birthday. It was a thoughtful gift and once she reached double digits her loving brother had sacrificed his time to teach her how to use them effectively.

She had participated in her first kill at age thirteen and from there she progressed. Only ever with Jim though; she never went out of her way for death. Her brother varied from her in this respect, he found death pleasurable, while she only used this when her brother expected it of her. To date she had over thirty kills under her belt.

She looked up into the clouds and admired the feeling of freedom. She passed many people on the streets, and took in their appearances so she could check her deducing skills later on. Nobody here knew who she was or what she'd done to stay alive. She shuddered at the thought of her brothers eyes. She used to love him, but she had come to recognize the dangers lurking behind his black, dead eyes.

She hated acting around her brother, but she had no doubt that if she stopped she'd end up like Becca. She couldn't let that happen to her.

“Spare change miss?” A young woman asked.

She stunk and obviously suffered from a mental handicap by the way she nervously twitched repeatedly. Not one of Sherlock’s people; he only chose the smartest ones. She handed over some bills and left for home. It had been a short but pleasant walk and she was ready for phase two of her apprenticeship.

She would get as involved as she could with Jim’s web of crimes, and she would learn how each strand danced. She would make a good crime queen, and she would learn fast. Maybe one day she would over through Jim, but for now she would remain heartless and humble, the perfect innocent Moriarty - exactly what her brother perceived her to be.


	11. Chapter 11

John was still confused, but after Lestrade had arrived and flashed his badge around confirming that Sherlock was telling the truth and Mycroft had visited to shed some light on his actions, Sherlock had managed to convince him to stay. For a moment Sherlock had panicked when John had started packing, raving about what a lunatic Sherlock was. It hadn’t been easy and had taken a large amount of Sherlock’s patience to not scream abuse at Lestrade and Mycroft, let alone John.

Sherlock had managed to bring them all up to speed on what he was doing to get John’s memory back but of course Lestrade was left out of the loop a little more than necessary. Once both Mycroft and Lestrade had left, John sat down in front of the telly although watching him now; Sherlock could see his eyes had glazed over. It would take some time to process all that they had told him.

Sherlock's knuckles went white, he was, for once, furious with himself. He had allowed his emotions to get the better of him and the decision to pretend to be John had created many extra problems. But Sherlock had handled it as eloquently as possible.

He was enraged that Mycroft had taken him aside before leaving and giving him a large speech about how long the game would have continued had John not gone snooping, blah, blah, blah. Sherlock deleted the information and instead informed John he was going out. John shrugged and nodded, not taking his eyes off the TV.

The old John would have asked where and then proceeded to come with him or followed less than discreetly. Sherlock sighed and pulled on his coat and scarf. He was out the door within seconds and hailed a cab easily.

When John had arrived that first morning, he had red clay on his trainers which came from Brixton, less than twenty minutes away and the way his hair had been blown was from the south. There was only two blocks that allowed enough wind resistance like that through in Brixton, and that was near the sea.

The two blocks where mostly restaurants by the sea, but on the very corner was an isolated apartment building; not one of the lights was on. Sherlock climbed the fire escape up the side when he reached his destination, and easily got inside. As he predicted the whole building was empty, except for the top loft. He used the stairs, and made it up with much breath to spare.

It was empty, but Sherlock mentally categorized everything. It took him less than two hours of wondering and observing. He allowed himself a lot of time to wait and watch the empty place, because this was Jim Moriarty, a man who followed no moral code whatsoever. Sherlock almost felt annoyed. Society forced him to follow some morals. Although it didn’t mean Sherlock was quiet above bending the rules. He just used some discretion.

Eventually Sherlock left for the apartment once more, alone. The constant white noise in his head was temporarily dimmed as he analyzed his files on Jim and this now abandoned apartment. Moriarty wasn’t quite as smart as he thought and Sherlock was getting to the head of the snake. It was coming to an end, and endless war that would soon cease.

Sherlock caught himself smiling in the cab mirror and quickly corrected the fault.


	12. Chapter 12

Jim set the plan up perfectly. He would make sure that the stupid detective inspector Lestrade needed Sherlock’s help to solve a case: The Mysterious Case of the Dismembered Drug Lord. Unidentified at first, of course, then he would allow Sherlock to spring on the east sides cocaine shipment.

Sherlock would have something other than catching Moriarty and what to do about John on his mind and the police would think it was the drugs bust of the century. And of course it would mean little to Jim, he was already stocking up the south side docks and he made sure they had the good stuff.

Sherlock was falling perfectly into his arms; arms that Jim would use to caress Sherlock’s soft skin. He smiled guiltily at the children in the street, who had stopped playing soccer and where now staring at him. Jim liked kids because they weren’t as stupid as adults. He himself had been smart enough to get away with murder and the young age of eight and as he grew, he had taught both his sisters.

While Becca picked things up quickly, she was always stupid when it came to disposing of the bodies. But little sweet Lilly had learned and prospered. She was a child protégé. Jim went back inside, nodding at the two burly men who alerted him to anyone and everyone in the street; especially the homeless. Sherlock used them as private eyes and ears into the cities goings on and they had started to unnerve Jim.

He sighed and lay back on the bed, pouring himself a drink and analyzing the day’s tapes. Many had come and gone to 221B but there was nothing especially interesting about them, they were all generally regulars. Even the homeless woman with the letter was a frequent traveler to the house. His interest peaked at who the letter was designated to and he rewound the tape again and again.

There was never a minute when the name wasn't covered so Jim was essentially blind. Although he could be fairly certain it was for Sherlock, as the woman had visited previously with tidbits of information. Jim became bored and restless and after a quick shower, he picked up one of the burner phones.

“999, what’s your emergency?” A pleasant but professional voice replied.

Jim put on a tearful old woman voice: “I’ve found a dismembered body in a warehouse by the east docks. I can’t go anywhere; there are men with flour in bags and guns! Help me!” He squealed before hanging up.

The police would answer the supposed old woman’s plea for help and within minutes the east dock cocaine shipments would be stopped. _Who the hell cares?_ He thought to himself, laughing. One of the burner phones began ringing; it was the pleasure phone.

He eyed it wearily. He had only got the burner for when Sherlock finally realized he had feelings for Moriarty, but he hadn’t given the number to anyone - let alone Sherlock. He picked it up and pressed the talk button, holding it to his ear and realized his hand was shaking.

“Jim, speak.” He said in his business voice.

“I'm getting closer, Moriarty.” The voice whispered before he heard the dial tone in his ear.

He stared at the phone his face white. There was no doubt in his mind that it was Sherlock, he had heard his delicious voice for long enough to identify it easily. He stood in the middle of the room for quite some time before kicking into action. He packed three small suitcases before gathered his shaving knife and Becca's files before heading downstairs.

“Burn the place to the bloody ground!” He shouted at the gaurds as he ran past.

He had purposefully left all his phones upstairs on the bed, covered in the bottles of alcohol. He took the land rover and was speeding down the road before the men would have even started the fire. Somehow, Sherlock had figured out his phone number and it was much earlier than Jim anticipated.

For a split second, Jim had a flicker of doubt pass through his brain, perhaps Sherlock was smarter. Jim shook it off. There was no way – Jim would always be smarter. He was a Moriarty. He was _the_ Moriarty.


	13. Chapter 13

John sat quietly in front of the TV, not watching, while he thought about everything. John's name was John. He gave an involuntary shiver. There were people, women, in the world who could take away your memories and give you a new name. He began to shiver, and eventually turned the TV off when he could no longer hear the voices over the sound of his teeth chattering.

He heard a knock downstairs and after a long moment he managed to get up. Before he even reached the doorway a small women was in front of him.

“How did you get in? Who are you?” He asked, managing to keep his voice level.

“I'm Sarah. I got in by... less than legal means. I'm part of Mr. Holmes’ network. I was paid to give this to you. Sherlock will want to know who it was from.” She said before turning and heading straight for the kitchen.

“What do you mean 'less than legal’? And what are you doing in our kitchen?” John asked, thrusting the envelope onto another pile of disorganized junk. He didn't care that it belonged to him, it was probably written before John lost his memory so there was no point him bothering with it.

“Oh, well I'm making tea and that aforementioned term simply means I picked the front doors lock. It was very... flimsy.” She said, prancing around the kitchen.

It seemed Sarah knew the place better than John. They sat down within a few moments to drink the tea. By John’s calculations, Sherlock had been gone over an hour. He looked out over the rim of the cup to the attractive women sitting across from him. She was reading the morning paper with an inquisitive look and he realized she was obviously a lot smarter than he had first.

“So, um, how long have you been part of Sherlock’s… network?” He asked cautiously.

“Fifteen months.” She answered quickly. “I lost my doctors license when I killed a patient and then I decided to rough it for a while. Learn to really support myself.” She said, not even looking up.

“You don’t seem ...” John said, trailing off.

“Like a doctor who lost their patient and is questioning the meaning of their life?” She supplied looking up sharply.

John gulped. “Well yeah, apparently I’m a doctor and I would be devastated.” John replied, realizing that medical terms and phrases where popping into his mind randomly but he couldn’t actually make sense of them.

Sarah looked back at the paper. “The guy had killed eleven people, and I was only operating to remove a shank that had been lodged in his ribcage and wrapped around the lung. I kinda think it was justice.” She said, looking back up at John. “Now, when will Sherlock be back?” She said, moving the conversation on.

John was fascinated with the former surgeon but accepted things as they were and didn’t press her any further. “He should be back any minute. I can’t see him just running off!” John said more to himself.

Sarah looked directly at him and chuckled quietly. “Good one.” She muttered before discarding the paper and instead cleaning her fingernails.

John sat peacefully; glad to have someone, even if he didn't really understand them, to talk to. They waited in comfortable silence for Sherlock. He considered opening the letter but couldn’t quite be bothered and Sherlock’s reaction to Sarah would determine whether or not it was worth reading.

John managed to relax and had stopped shaking after the tea. He caught Sarah looking at him every now and then but managed to ignore the questioning stare and instead focused on all his new information. He had finally come to terms with what Sherlock had told him and it was easier and easier to think of himself as John, not as Arthur. He sat a little straighter, and enjoyed the lovely day.


	14. Chapter 14

Lilly looked numbly at her brother. He was fuming; somehow Sherlock had discovered the pleasure phone number. Even she didn’t know that one. Lilly prayed it wasn’t somehow connected to the letter she had sent John Watson. She shut down her emotions, and quickly reviewed all her movements and actions in the last few hours.

She hadn't been observed more than the usual stares and the only thing she had done was give the mental chick the letter. Lilly froze. She wasn’t mad; it was an act. And Lilly was in deep shit if Jim found out. She swallowed abruptly and went to the kitchen.

“You want some tea?” She yelled at the roof. She could hear her brothers pacing feet moving up and down over her head. He had accepted the offer of staying with her a few days and she was glad to have him here, where she could watch him and make sure he wasn’t suspicious of her somehow revealing his cell number to the detective.

“Yes, tea always helps; number one rule.” He shouted back, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

She boiled the jug and brewed the tea. She almost laughed at the absurdness; master criminals with their very lives threatened, and they were drinking tea! She calmed herself down and walked upstairs. Jim was lying on the bed texting.

“You haven’t done anything to get you noticed have you?” He asked, raising his eyebrows but not looking at her.

“Like what?” She asked, making sure that her voice void of emotion.

“New boyfriend? Or perhaps a not-so-subtle murder? Were you anywhere near downtown London?” He asked, looking at her coldly.

“No, no recent death by my hand – plus you know it would never be traceable. No boyfriends – they're all too stupid to even satisfy my needs. And no, I haven’t been near downtown London today, all I did was go for a walk!” She said, allowing enough outrage to show through her voice so that he suspected nothing.

“Where did you walk?” He asked after having a sip of his tea. Lilly's heart began beating faster. If she revealed where she'd walked there was a possibility he's check security tapes and see her with the homeless woman. And the letter. She remained silent. “WHERE WERE YOU?!” He screamed, slamming his tea down, spilling it over the sides of the cup.

Lilly remained still. This was the first time Jim had ever directed his anger at her and her own rage boiled beneath her mask of calm. How dare he be angry with her - she did the right thing. And now she was being abused for it!

“I don’t have to tell you when I buy tampons!” She screamed, faking tears and storming out.

Silence seemed to echo through the huge house but eventually she detected a his presence in her room.

“I'm sorry Lilly, I thought ... I shouldn’t need to know where you are 24/7… It’s just the business we're in, and Sherlock, he ... He figure's things out as quick as me. I have no idea how he got my number and it rattled me. I'm sorry I yelled at you.” He said smoothly.

Lilly smirked into his pillow. It had worked - he wouldn’t go looking into her period supplies and she meanwhile had an alibi. She turned over - making sure her mascara was smudged under her eyes. “It's ok, I... I know the business. You had a right to think I would betray you.” She said lamely.

“I knew you wouldn’t betray me!” He cried, sitting on the bed and pulling her into a hug. She smirked inwardly; she had him wrapped around her little thumb.

“Why don’t you stay here for a while? We can catch up and you can teach me everything I need to know?” She said. He nodded into her shoulder.

“Ok. Sherlock won’t know we're here and everything will be fine.” He replied. They remained in a tight hug for a while then she pulled back. It would be a long week and her nerves would be on end. But, if she stuck to her story, she'd be fine.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock had been delighted with actually finding one of Moriarty's numbers. After revisiting the images of the loft, he had realized a distinct pattern: all leftover furniture was moved to the left. Becca was left handed, so it was obviously her last place of residence. Then, knowing Rebecca was no smart enough to obtain an off grid place of residence, he knew Moriarty had obtained it for her.

After seeing the first pattern in the mental images, he started focusing on smaller patterns. The area code was 896123; not enough for a cell number but certainly an interesting amount. He noted the gas pipes running along the innards of the walls made obvious by the way the paint was pealing. He knew the model was from 1983, from the way the paint had peeled, bubbling, cracking then falling like unsightly dandruff.

After noticing the exact number of light fixtures, 23, and the electrical power points, 9, he had added all these numbers together. The total became 898138, that plus adding the apartment number digits at the end, gave 89-813-847 This was the number Sherlock called outside 221B

There had been many studies at oxford by a professor named Charles Henderson. He had deduced that those with an IQ above 170 always subconsciously chose things according to the mathematical relevance of their surroundings. Therefore, subconsciously, Moriarty had taken in all his surroundings while he was in the apartment and then later when choosing his seemingly random number, his subconscious gave him these numbers in the exact sequence they had been noticed, plus a bit of jumbling with the adding.

Sherlock knew that if this number was wrong, he would simply review the apartment images in his mind and deduce the other numbers. Luckily for Sherlock, he was right first time. He dialed the number before entering the apartment; there was no point alarming John.

“Jim, Speak.” Was the reply.

Sherlock waited a moment, before whispering a reply. “I'm getting closer, Moriarty.” He said, before hanging up the phone.

He then entered the apartment. Moriarty would not know how Sherlock had deduced his number, when supposedly it was just a random number he chose and he wasn’t the sort of criminal mastermind that just handed out his number.

Sherlock predicted Moriarty would already be on the move. All he had to do now was figure out where he was heading. That could wait till tomorrow, though. He was supposedly out for milk - and if John was in any way his old self he would soon be asking him a million questions as to why he had taken two and a half hours for milk, and returned empty handed.

He sighed. It would be much better when he had returned John’s old memories. He would be his old self and perhaps they could pick up where they left off. Sherlock muttered crude words under his breath but before he opened the door to the apartment, he realized he was not alone with John, the smell was off in the apartment.

Sherlock weighted his options, and then pushed ahead anyway. It had been a long day - and even if it was Mycroft, he would change into his dressing gown and rest on the couch, not sleeping or eating as usual - after all this was a case, but he would indulge in some relaxation nicotine patches to help him think and relax.

“Sherlock? Where the hell have you been? We're completely out of milk! Our guest put the last of it in her tea! Would you please take care of this? And where the bloody hell were you?” John said, less than calmly.

Sherlock watched him intensely for a moment, and then turned his gaze to the former surgeon. “Sarah. What information do you have?” He asked, moving into his bedroom and changing out of his suit and pulling on some cotton pajama bottoms. He then made his way back to the lounge and lay on the couch, placing his feet in Johns lap. Sarah watched, amused at John’s obvious discomfort with this action, then she began her story.


	16. Chapter 16

Jim felt more insane than usual. He had almost accused his own blood of betrayal; sweet Lilly would never make a move against him. And instead, like an idiot, he had demanded to know about her walk and all she had been doing was getting bloody tampons! Jim almost smacked himself. _That’s what girls do!_ He thought angrily to himself. He shook himself off and tried to get to sleep.

Lilly had obviously forgiven him and they'd allowed themselves a hug. It was an unusual occurrence in the Moriarty family. He had enjoyed it despite his abstinence from emotions. Sherlock had not since called or made a move on him and Jim was certain he was safe and that nobody would know Lilly's location. Plus, he had swapped cars four times before arriving as well as doing a check for bugs and trackers before arriving at the beautiful home he'd gifted his sister with.

It was a magnificent house; he was happy to be staying here for a while, he decided. His usual restlessness followed him into the night and he found himself thinking who the letter was from. It was obvious it was important because the woman had not left for some time. In fact, she was still there. Perhaps they were letting her stay the night?

He pulled the covers high around his neck and played with his shaving knife under the covers. He really needed to get back into physical training. He was in perfect condition but it was best to regularly train when it came to knife wielding.

He burned with the desire to talk to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock had feelings for him; it was evident in his voice on the phone earlier. Now that Jim had calmed down, he assessed every syllable of Sherlock’s whispered sentence.

His voice dripped with so much lust that Moriarty had been tempted to just show up on Sherlock’s stairs. They would be together finally! But Jim knew better; Sherlock had to look perfect for his friends and he couldn’t just have a spontaneous romantic relationship with a criminal. Jim would have to set it up perfectly. He would have Sherlock alone. And then he would have Sherlock.

He grinned and got out of the bed. Sherlock never slept so he would be awake right now; thinking about him. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. Maybe he was mad, if so, he didn’t care. He could tell Sherlock loved him. He flicked the knife open, and began tossing it at the room’s fireplace mantel, aiming for the same spot, again and again.

It was morning in no time and he was still hitting the same spot. He realized he had been in a state of semi sleep, when the knife dropped to the floor with a thud. It was beyond blunt - the metal was gnarled and nasty. He moved towards his suitcases, now fully awake. After changing into his favorite suit, he got out his diamond stone.

It was the most expensive blade sharpener money could buy and for good reason. It worked perfectly, no matter how gnarled the metal was. He checked the time, it was 6:47. Lilly could begin her training today. They would stay inside and begin with simple tasks. He called the security on his cell, which he had moved in after nightfall.

“Yes boss?” One of the men answered.

“One of you needs to get me two cups of tea, two oranges and two oat muffins. You have ten minutes. Don’t disappoint me.” He snarled, before hanging up.

He enjoyed doing things for his sister but he wasn’t an errand boy and for now he would simply wake Lilly and start teaching her. He padded to her room silently. He could hear the thudding noises, and his stomach lurched when the thought of an attack going on inside entered his mind. He opened the door, and was surprised to find Lilly training herself in the art of street fighting - on a big man.

The man took the hits well, and Jim watched with a great deal of respect as she levelled him with swift kicks and punched and then instructed him to get up so she could go again. He was silent, aside from the occasional _oof._ After a minute or two, Lilly noticed him and stopped, bowing at her opponent, then him. The man nodded and left, blood pouring off him.

“Who was that?” He asked, wondering if this man had somehow revealed information to Sherlock.

“My body guard, Lars.” She replied, taking a sip from a water bottle. “He called last night from the university and asked if I still required his services. He drove through the night just to train with me!” She replied happily. She was obviously fond of the man.

“He's well trained, and he seems descent.” He remarked as she closed the door on her bathroom for a shower.

She grunted a yes and he left to wait downstairs for coffee. She was already full of promise as a student, and her training this morning confirmed she was physically stronger than he had first predicted. He took the food and drinks from the nervous security guard, and began eating while waiting for Lilly to join him.


	17. Chapter 17

“...So I followed the pretty lady back discreetly - she didn’t look at me twice ‘cause of the twitch. Probably thought I was handicapped!” Sarah said, telling Sherlock and John about the girl who had given her the letter. “Anyway, she ended up in this humongous house. She was alone, no car, nothing. I came here after ‘cause I knew you'd want to know.” Sarah finished.

John blushed as Sherlock yawned and stretched out further on the couch until his lower thighs were resting on his lap. John didn’t move but he was certainly not comfortable and Sarah's smirking stare was not helping the blush on his cheeks.

“Thank you, Sarah. Why don’t you shower while I think? And where is the letter by the way? What was it about John?” He said, directing his intense gaze at John. John didn’t know what to do so he lashed out.

“None of your business!” He said angrily. “It was just some woman - nobody in particular! And the letter was addressed to me so it’s none of your business what it said!” He replied. Sherlock just stared at him.

“You didn’t read it.” He stated simply.

“How could you _possibly_ know whether I’ve read it or have not?” John asked, getting increasingly frustrated.

“You have no remaining envelope glue on your fingers and we don’t have a letter opener, so you would have used your hands. Also, the tone in your voice suggests you’re lashing out for something you seem to think I've done.” He said lazily, curling his toes while stretching.

That was the last straw for John. He shoved Sherlock’s feet off his lap and stood up. “Well your right; I haven’t read it. And I'm not lashing out!” He shouted angrily, his rage boiling over finally.

Sherlock stood up. “You are lashing out. I've owned up to my lies so there's no reason for you to be angry!” Sherlock said, raising his voice above his usual decibel range.

“Well I'm angry!” John yelled shoving Sherlock.

Sherlock shook himself then pushed John back with a wicked smirk on his face. John stumbled backwards, his calves slamming painfully into the coffee table. He grabbed Sherlock’s gown and slammed him down on top of the table. He turned to walk away but Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged causing John to fall backwards. He ended up on top of Sherlock on the table. John got up and slapped Sherlock across the face, leaving an angry red mark on his pale skin.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Sherlock growled, punching John in the jaw while he struggled to get up. John yelped and soon was sobbing, no longer struggling but instead hugging Sherlock against the table.

“What’s wrong John?” Sherlock asked softly, reaching his hand around and stroking Johns back.

John realized he must be crushing Sherlock’s tiny frame and lifted himself up with his suprisingly strong arms. “Where were you?” He asked, his voice cracking; the sobs causing his whole body to shudder. He looked down at Sherlock’s face searchingly, analyzing every detail and trying desperately to remember anything about him that he hadn’t been told since the memory wipe.

“Where was I when?” Sherlock asked, moving slightly under John.

“You said you were getting milk!” John said, anger re-entering his voice.

“John, I was tracking Moriarty; nothing to worry about.” He said in a warm voice. John watched for any tells in his face, but when he found none, he realized he was not lying. John nodded and got up, off Sherlock and the coffee table.

“I think I should go to bed.” John muttered.

Sherlock nodded at him. “I will have Sarah stay; she can wash her clothes and sleep in my bed. If it's okay with you, I'll read the letter on your behalf and Sarah can show me the ‘suspicious women’ and her house tomorrow.” He said, his eyebrows rising at the mention of the women.

John nodded, but then had an afterthought. “Where will you sleep?” He asked Sherlock solemnly.

“I don’t sleep. It's one of my many curses, John.” He said softly. John nodded not really understanding. His heart ached, but he couldn’t determine why. He went upstairs, climbed into bed, and drifted to sleep to the sound of beautiful violin. 


	18. Chapter 18

After a delicious breakfast, Jim had instructed Lilly to sharpen his razor flip blade. He'd shown her the best technique and left her to it. Lilly was happy to learn this particular skill because it meant she would be able to sharpen her throwing knives, rather than have to pay someone to do it.

She enjoyed the long smooth strokes and the sound the blade made against the diamond stone; a pleasant repetitive scraping. Soon she was thinking of the sound of waves and the beach and before she could react, she was on the floor with Jim kneeling over her.

“Rule one: everyone is your enemy and you can never let your guard down.” He said simply, before rolling off her.

She got up, feeling foolish for not realizing he was sneaking up on her. If it were an enemy, she would be dead by now. She sighed and sat back down at the table, returning to the job of sharpening blade. It took only a few hours and the blade was perfectly sharpened, the slightest touch would draw blood. She grinned and headed to Jim’s room. He was texting and she watched his fingers dancing about the keys and predicted the text's message:

_Three snipers; one for each of them. Fire if plan is not achieved. If the plan is achieved, leave. Either way you will receive payment._

Lilly kept her face blank. “Texting your girlfriend?” She joked. Jim jerked up sharply.

“Gay, remember?” He said sharply, something had obviously not gone to plan.

“I thought you went for anything of interest?” She muttered before presenting him with the blade.

His anger disappeared and was replaced with an emotionless mask as he took the blade, pressing his thumb to the edge and watching the blood run from his finger. “Good. Now, next lesson: counteracting boredom. Go sit in the lounge, touch nothing, say nothing for the rest of the day, your behavior tonight will display your performance results from this test.” He said coldly.

Lilly hadn’t quite expected her apprenticeship to be like this: she expected to learn all about his current crimes in progress, the going rates for different crimes and then maybe they'd go out and kill some people. Sharpening the knife that kept her awake most of the night and sitting alone in a room doing nothing was not exactly what she had in mind.

Nevertheless, she nodded and turned, complying with his demands. She sat down, and listened to him pacing the floor above her, before talking to someone on the phone:

“Why did it take them so long to call him to help with the investigation?” He snarled upstairs.

“They aren’t smart enough to identify the remains and they would have needed him straight away!” He said after a few seconds of silence. “What the hell? Refused? If that’s not true, I will skin you!” He screamed.

Lilly heard a shattering sound and deduced that he'd thrown his phone at the wall and shattered it. She sighed and filed both the text from earlier and this new information away. She would figure it out later on but for now she was stuck in the middle of a practically empty room and she wasn’t allowed to do anything. 


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock had been surprised by John’s outburst. He knew he was angry, but it was unusual for this anger to come from fear for Sherlock’s life. Sherlock felt his body grow warm with pride and picked up the violin, so he could think. It would be a long night.

John came down the stairs with a thud, meanwhile Sherlock was reading the letter for the seventeenth time.

“Is it anything interesting?” John asked, pouring himself and Sherlock some tea.

Sherlock nodded, busy profiling all terms in the letter. “It's from Lilly Moriarty, the youngest in the family. She's trying to be noble and explain her part in your memory wipe. And apologize. Thank goodness she's so young, she made the stupid mistake of revealing much too much of herself in the letter. You ever here criminal profiling?” Sherlock asked, allowing himself a quick drink of the tea.

John always made good tea, and it warmed him inside to know John made it without any requests made of him to do it. “Yeah, I've heard of it. Why? Have you got something?” He asked, plopping himself in front of Sherlock.

“Yes; in a manner of speaking. I know exactly where Moriarty is and I know where Lilly is, thanks to Sarah. But, this letter is much better information than I could have hoped to get from questioning Lilly myself!” He replied, letting his enthusiasm ebb into his voice.

“Whoa, calm down; you’re certainly excitable this morning!” John laughed. He stopped in his tracks when a throat cleared behind him.

“I'm not interrupting anything am I?” Sarah asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Sherlock glared at her, realizing the reason John was bright red was because of the conversations sexual content.

“Shut up. I need the address for the house and then you can leave.” Sherlock said. “John, come here and I'll show you what I mean.” He said, his voice emotionless. John complied willingly, and Sarah wrote the address down before leaving. Sherlock allowed John to read the letter before standing up and pacing before him.

“What we learn from this, first of all, is that she knew she wasn’t supposed to write it, yet she did anyway. She doesn't have a heart, despite what she says in her letter so this move to write the letter was subconscious. It was really to rebel against Moriarty. When I called him last night, I spooked him. I know he is staying with her, because she is still alive despite writing the letter so Moriarty doesn’t know what she did yet, and he trusts her. Therefore, after my phone call, he would have taken flight to someone he trusted. Her.” Sherlock said, slowly so John could thoroughly grasp everything.

“How did you get his number?” John asked, looking puzzled.

“It would take too long to explain the process but for now I can say that that’s what I was doing instead of buying milk. If you want to understand further, you can google Charles Henderson’s paper on the working of the subconscious.” He replied. John nodded so Sherlock continued relaying his deductions. “The fact that she used a typewriter, shows her IQ to be higher than 140 and she recognizes that her handwriting is traceable. It also shows she is a neat person, meaning her personality is tidy, thus we can deduce she is calm and calculating. I am guessing she had murdered at least twenty-five people to date.” Sherlock stated, waiting for johns inevitable reaction to this news.

“But I'm calm and calculating!” He replied agitated.

“Yes John, and not to make you upset but although you can’t recall, over 40 people have died at your hand during the war, on the operating table, or in surprise combat situations. Not to say that every neat person is a killer, but they do make good killers. And judging her from her family history, we can successfully deduce she is a murderer. Further we can deduce her age by the way she signs her name at the bottom, although she types it, it’s still signed ‘Lilly M’. This is typical of fifteen to twenty-five years old. Any older and they will sign full name, any younger and it would not be viable for her to successfully approach a homeless person with a wad of cash without an adult noticing and reporting it or talking to her. I guess her to be nineteen, because Jim has such strong fatherly connections to her and he's twenty-seven.” Sherlock said, not finished with his deductions by far but happy with what he'd revealed so far.

“Amazing!” John stated, looking bewildered. Sherlock shrugged.

“I never used to see Profiling as a viable source or information, but after intense research into it, you can make perfect deductions of a person with something as small as a scribbled phone number, Let alone a whole letter.” he replied, settling in to reveal more information.


	20. Chapter 20

The day had been long and frustrating. Sherlock had not even bothered to go down to the docks to assist the police in their identifying the dismembered drug lord. Moriarty had been more and angrier; his contact stated Sherlock refused because he was already working on a case. Namely catching Jim.

He couldn’t even understand why he wanted Moriarty so badly; sure he was the best in the business when it came to any crime but honestly there where thousands of murderers in London so why go after him directly?

These thoughts were coursing through his head constantly when he remembered the files Becca had kept. He grabbed them from his suitcase and cursed himself with being so preoccupied with Lilly's training and the running boy’s stupidity.

One of his deals had gone sour when a running boy informed his boss he'd seen one of Moriarty's trucks of refugee's enter their side of the neighborhood. The boss was fresh and wanted to prove himself and had captured the van. Moriarty had to pull a team together to kill every last one of them. None of the refugees would live to tell the tale and none of the neighborhood thugs would live to tell of their small prevalence over Moriarty - not that they knew it was one of Moriarty’s trucks.

He sighed and flicked through the files. Everything was just logistics; monitoring of his brain activity during the procedure, mini MRI's his history and background. Becca had certainly been thorough. It was around page nineteen that things became interesting.

There was a series of genetic coding in mathematical equations. Basically, after the first look, it meant that John Watson’s memory could be restored. Jim realized immediately this is why Sherlock was pursuing him so fervently. He wished to return his companions memory. Jim sighed. So Sherlock wasn't as in love as he thought - he cared too deeply about John still and would do anything to get his memory back.

Jim remained still for many moments. He would have a change of plan the roof of the hospital, would become the final resting place of Sherlock unless he changed and loved Moriarty as Moriarty loved him. Jim smiled and got up. He should check on Lilly - it was getting dark and she had been sitting in the living room many hours.

Most of his former people did not last; they would move or whine, asking if the test was strictly necessary. It was at that point he would have them killed. If they could not learn patience, there was no point furthering their training or their life spans.

Lilly was sitting in a meditation position, but she opened her eyes when one of the old floorboards creaked under Jim’s weight. She moved her eyes, but not her head, obviously seeing him but not moving until she had permission.

“You can get up.” He said solemnly, still upset about the realization Sherlock was only perusing him for John’s sake.

“Thank you. Are you hungry?” She asked respectfully. Jim shook his head. “Well, I'm going to eat if that’ okay.” She said it as a statement rather than a question.

Jim was impressed; she was surpassing his expectations. He watched her walk away and went back to texting the assassins about the change of plan for the rooftop. It was possible Lilly would question him about her tasks still, but for now she was doing well.

He arranged the team for ridding him of the opposition in the west neighborhood and then went to bed. He didn’t hear Lilly again, but he knew she was sleeping to. It was the first night in a long time he managed a few hours sleep, but his dreams where unpleasant nightmares of John and Sherlock together, laughing at him. Nobody laughed at Jim; he changed it so that Sherlock was dying on the roof. Jim woke with a jolt, feeling uneasy.

He had the men check the house, but nobody had infiltrated his layer. Something was ... strange, but he couldn’t figure it out, instead he finished the night, throwing his blade at a new spot in the mantel.


	21. Chapter 21

John knew Sherlock was talented, but after explaining all the deductions he'd made from just one letter, John was gob smacked. He realized he'd been sitting for hours, listening to his mesmerizing voice, explain all the things he wanted to know, patiently correcting him when he needed to be.

John finally got up. “That was incredible!” He said into the silence.

Sherlock nodded and John noticed how hollow his eyes looked. He remembered Sherlock saying he didn’t sleep, but it turns out this admission was true. John left for the Kitchen, and slipped one of his own pills into Sherlock’s new brew of tea. Sherlock took the tea silently, nodding his head in thanks.

Within minutes he was slurring his words. “Joh-nnn what did you dooo….? I feel f, fun ...funny.” He whined, curling into a ball on the couch.

“You need to sleep, Sherlock. Just go to sleep. Don’t fight it.” He said smoothly, placing a blanket over Sherlock.

Within minutes the apartment was filled with gentle snoring sounds. John hoped Sherlock would forgive him. He reread the letter and glanced at the address Sarah had provided. He should go and check it out - see if he could locate either of them, although he had no idea what they looked like. He decided against going straight away, rather he would shower and leave a note for Sherlock.

He'd leave in the night; there was less chance anybody would spot him and Sherlock would still be asleep. The shower was refreshing and after a long time enjoying the feeling of the water, and having a shave, he found himself kneeling in front of Sherlock, watching him sleep.

The gently rise and fall of his chest was somehow comforting to John. He reached out a hand and stroked the long dark hair, allowing the curls to grip at his fingers. John smiled and stood up. He knew there had to be something going on between him and Sherlock before the memory wipe; it didn’t take a genius to figure that out, even if Sherlock was too respectful to say.

He sighed and picked up the discarded violin, managing to squeak out a few creaky notes before returning it to its spot. He then sat down at the small table, and wrote a note for Sherlock.

_Gone to look for Moriarty. I'll be fine, just looking. Hope you had a good sleep. I gave you presmidismol, from my prescription, though I can’t remember why I need them as I seem to sleep fine now._

_JW_

 

He quickly left the flat, and after a quick dinner headed to the provided address. As he wanted, it was two in the morning by the time he got out of the cab a few blocks away from the house. He sprayed spirits on his clothes and staggered down the street so that if anyone wondered what he was doing there in the middle of the night, they'd think he was just a harmless drunk.

He slowly passed the house, tripping a few times, to get a good look. It was eerily silent in the street. He had a heart attack when the upstairs bedroom light flicked on and a young man came to the window, staring out into the street. John kept low and eventually the man left, although the light remained on.

John stumbled away, and took a cab home. It was as if the man had sensed John being there. He gulped down the bile that had collected at the bottom of his throat, and got out at 221B. After paying the fair, he went back inside. Sherlock was still asleep so he crumpled the note he'd left and shoved it at the bin, before heading upstairs to his own bed.

It had only been five days since his memory loss, but to John it felt a lifetime. He drifted into a peaceful sleep, knowing he would enjoy the inevitable fight with Sherlock in the morning for drugging him. He let the darkness take his mind, and his dreams where full of Sherlock, and the dangerous man in the window.


	22. Chapter 22

Lilly had a peaceful night’s sleep, despite her aching muscles from sitting in the same position all day. As per her normal routine while she was at university, Lars woke her at 4:00am and they resumed their training. Today Lars would throw punches back at her so she could keep up her speed. He was amazing the way he just took every hit - no complaints, despite the black eyes and bleeding nose at the end of their sessions.

By the time Jim had knocked for her to come down for another days training, she had ceased fighting with Lars and had already showered to rid herself of the bloody knuckles and sweat she was covered with. Lars waited at her request, and after changing she met him in the hallway.

“Lars?” She ventured, not sure how much of a conversation she could have with him, after such a physically demanding session.

“Yes Miss Lilly?” He replied, slinging himself off the wall and walking a little behind her respectfully.

“How do you take every single hit without complaint? Does it not hurt?” She asked, enjoying the smells that came from the kitchen, no doubt Jim had gotten breakfast again.

“I can’t feel it mam; my nerves are deteriorating. Pretty much the only thing I can feel is hot or cold.” He replied, looking solemn.

Lilly considered this. If it were true - which it would be because Lars wouldn’t have reason to lie - it meant Lars would be incapable of walking in the near future. “I'm sorry. If you want we could stop.” She said, feeling bad for punching a man incapable of physical feeling.

“Nah, it’s fine. But there will come a day when I can’t help you train anymore Miss, and I'll be truly sorry on that day.” He replied.

“What did you do before me? What was your job?” She ventured, never having been all that interested in Lars personal life until now.

“I was a sniper in the army, mam. They discharged me when they learnt of my condition.” He said, stiffening a little as he spoke the words.

“Would you be willing to kill again?” She asked quietly, stopping outside the kitchen so her brother wouldn’t hear.

“Yeah, for the right amount or with the right motivation.” He said, looking in the distance. No doubt remembering the faces of all those he'd put in the ground, as Lilly often did.

“Well thanks, see you tomorrow.” She said loudly, before turning and walking into the kitchen to Jim who was eating an orange.

“I may have a new man for you.” She said, trying to keep her voice placid. Jim raised his eyebrows.

“Really? A man to do what?” He asked, obviously interested.

“He was a sniper, ready to kill again if the need arises.” She replied casually, as if they were discussing the weather.

“Really?” He asked, obviously still interested.

“I couldn’t help but predict your text before. I hear you have three snipers in place. Is there need for a fourth?” She said, not looking at him. There was silence for a few moments as he chewed through the fact that she could tell what he was texting all by seeing a his fingers tap at a screen.

“I have no need for four snipers, little sis. However, one of them is being put to use ... elsewhere, so I will need your man. Is he reliable?” He asked, staring at her intently. She raised her eyes to his.

“Very.” She replied in a cold voice, knowing it was expected of her. This was business they were discussing, it called for no tells, no emotions.

“Good. If he fails, it will be up to you to kill him. No second chances. Give me his contact details, and I will let him know about the Job.” He said, his hands unmoving, the half pealed orange in his hands remaining immobile as he discussed business. He was not one to mix it with pleasure.

“I want to know about the job.” She stated quietly.

He stood up and for a split second raw panic coursed through her, she had pushed him too far. He could not discuss business with her. She waited for a punch or slap, or even the blade of a knife but nothing came. Instead, he uttered a firm 'no' and left.

Lilly sat still. She knew her limits now; he would take work and workers from her, but not tell her the business he was doing, or was going to do. No specifics. Alright, she sighed. She would have to figure out the business herself. Fine. She would direct her brain towards figuring out the crimes her brother was involved in.


	23. Chapter 23

It was midday when Sherlock woke. When he checked the wall clock, he found that he'd been sleeping over twelve hours. He shook himself, and got off the couch. His legs were cramping and he silently withstood the pain. After the spasms had ceased, he entered the kitchen and had a large glass of water.

His mouth tasted like metal.

John had drugged him.

He realized this anomaly with a slight shock. Three months earlier, Sherlock had drugged John while they were on a case and his reaction had helped Sherlock prove people were going insane through a hallucinogenic drug, not a hound stalking them.

But this was different, John had seen something in Sherlock, and realized he should sleep.

It would have been the presmidismol. John took it so he could sleep through the dreams of Afghanistan. They ended up making his nightmares worse though because he couldn’t wake up after he'd had the sleeping pills. Many a time Sherlock had to play the violin outside John’s door to subconsciously take him to a happier place in the dream, which meant he helped John die more quickly in the dreams.

Sherlock shuddered at the thought. But now, John had drugged him. Sherlock walked silently upstairs but found John fast asleep in bed. He hadn’t had a nightmare about the war since the memory wipe, and had slept perfectly it would seem in the last few days. Sherlock watched him for a few moments, longing to climb into his bed and cuddle. But he put the thought aside and left the room, instead going downstairs.

He was thinking clearly and he looked around the apartment and realized how it was depicted by visitors. It was a rubbish tip. There were files and papers smeared over every surface, plus his clothes dumped in every corner. That added with the discarded bits and bobs of things Sherlock had at one point found interesting. It was as he called it - an excellent working environment - yet a tip none the less.

He sat on the couch, swishing his robe tighter around him. He recalled what he'd been doing the day before, and remembered he knew exactly where Moriarty was. Yet, he would not just go to him - that would be stupid. Moriarty was an excellent knifeman and although he did not involve himself in crime personally, Sherlock would be dead before he reached the front door; sliced to bits by one of his men.

Sherlock could defend himself against the normal idiot, but those with such high IQ that they could manufacture their own fighting technique were the people Sherlock was less inclined to go into combat against. Moriarty was defiantly in that category. For now, he would do nothing, not go near the house, lay low and not give Moriarty reason to shift. For now, he thought he was safe.

The detective noticed a crumpled note on the floor and picked it up. It wasn’t his - he never crumpled so gently. It was as if the person had patted the paper to death. Sherlock undid it and read the message. It was John’s. He had written it for Sherlock. It struck him how bad this was. John had been to Moriarty's house. Immediately, he was off the couch and thundering up the stairs into John’s room.

He shook him awake.

“What?” John growled irritably, his voice lower than normal.

“Did you go to his house?” Sherlock snarled, white anger causing his fists to shake.

“Oi, don’t be pissed that you got a good night’s sleep!” John said. He closed his eyes, trying to put his head back on the pillow and return to slumber.

“JOHN! Did you go to Moriarty's house?” He yelled, straight into John's face. His eyes flew open at the loudness of Sherlock’s voice in such a close proximity.

“Yeah, I walked past. Pretended I was a drunk. I saw him too. I was walking passed, when the upstairs light went on and he just stared out, he was like a ghost. He didn’t see me and he left the window. I scarpered after that.” John replied uneasily, he struggled against Sherlock, but the Detectives grip remained tight around his shirt.

“You may have just destroyed your only chance at getting your memory back.” He said simply, then got up and walked out.

Within minutes John joined him downstairs, his jumper buttoned wrong and his socks mismatching. “What do you mean?” He practically yelled, panic evident on his face.

“You have no idea what could result from this! He is a spider John! A spider in the middle of a criminal web and he knows how every strand dances! Do you honestly think he's stupid enough to not know when the drunk that walks past his house and hides from him is spying on him?” Sherlock replied grimly, texting Mycroft to have his men check for any activity at the address.

For all Sherlock knew, he may have already left. Disappearing with John’s memory forever. Sherlock pulled out his spare phone and sent one text. Within seconds he had a reply. After a few more texts, he looked at John who was staring at him with hopeful eyes.

“I'm going out. _Don’t_ do anything stupid while I'm gone.” He said, knowing his harsh words would hurt John.

He walked past and almost stopped when he heard the whispered 'I’m sorry' to his back but he continued down the stairs anyway, knowing that one way or another, he would figure out today if Moriarty would give him the codes.


	24. Chapter 24

It was midday when Moriarty received the text. He had changed phones but kept the number that Sherlock had called in case he received further communication from Sherlock. At midday he got a text.

_You have something I want._

_SH._

Jim didn’t waste time in thinking hard about his reply.

 

_Come and get it._

Within seconds he received more.

 

_Where and when?_

Jim paused, knowing this was it. Sherlock was falling into his trap without knowing it. He replied a final time.

 

_Bart’s rooftop. 30 minutes._

After the meeting was arranged, he left Lilly, whom he hugged lovingly before leaving. He loved her so very much. She was perfect. She loved him. She was the only one in the world who loved a monster like him.

He whistled cheerfully and got into a cab. Perhaps after this meeting with the genius detective, there would be two people who loved him. He left the house and headed to the hospital; knowing and not caring he'd get there much before Sherlock. He climbed the stairs quickly on the hospital.

Sherlock wasn’t smart enough to beat him, or stupid enough to set up a trap. Moriarty enjoyed the fresh air on the roof and watched as people skittered around below him. The snipers had been set up and thanks to Lilly's suggestion of taking on her man - he had a new sniper. He had entrusted Lars with the responsibility of John Watson, the ever faithful companion.

Moriarty played some music off his phone to pass the time. He was bored but he knew that soon he'd have a lot of fun with Sherlock - whether he liked it or not.

_Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive...._

Moriarty stopped the music and turned behind him to face the genius. He had made no attempt to sneak up.

“That’s our problem. STAYING ALIVE!” He shouted, more at the world than at Sherlock, but Sherlock let out a small smirk.

“Did you bring what I wanted?” Sherlock asked, tapping his hands behind his back as Jim circled him.

“Ha, you mean the genetic code?” He replied, coming to a stop beside Sherlock. Sherlock looked down at him and Jim was frustrated with just how tall Sherlock was. Sherlock nodded. “Nope. SORRY! Look at yourself Sherlock, see what they've made you! You may think you’re so _BIG_ , talking big... but you’re on the side of the ANGELS!” Moriarty shouted.

Sherlock spun and grabbed Jim so quickly he lost his balance. Sherlock hung him over the edge, holding Moriarty's life in his hands. “I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one _second_ that I am one of them. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I will not disappoint you.” He replied, keeping his tone even.

“Oh Sherlock, did you come all this way to just for John’s health? That’s brilliant. But Sherlock, I'm beginning to wonder if you love me?” He asked as Sherlock threw him back onto the roof.

“What? No! You’re _INSANE_!” He said, screaming the last of it, obviously appalled with Jim’s suggestion.

Moriarty remained on his back, disappointed with Sherlock. He wasn’t a genius, after all. He had no feelings for Jim; it was only Lilly that loved. Him and Lilly against the rest of the world. He sighed and got up. “No....No! Sherlock, I’m disappointed, I’m disappointed in you, _ordinary_ Sherlock!” He yelled. He was insane, but who cares - insanity had gotten him this far and now Sherlock had forced Jim to show his hand. “Well, the final problem. The FINAL PROBLEM SHERLOCK! STAYING ALIVE!” Moriarty muttered, to the side of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, “Oh, ohhhh.” He replied, his brain finally catching up with Jims meanings.

“Your friends will die if you don’t.” Jim said happily, nodding in the direction of the edge of the roof.

Sherlock looked at him. “Who?” He asked.

“Everyone.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Everyone.”

“Lestrade?”

“EVERYONE!” Jim screamed.

“John?” Sherlock whispered. Jim nodded.

“Off you pop.” He said, appalled at Sherlock’s now obvious love for his tiny companion.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked, whirling round to face Jim.

Jim took a step closer. “All my life, I've been searching for distractions. You, Sherlock were the best, and now ... now I don’t even have you.” Moriarty replied, staring lustfully at Sherlock.

The detectives eyes widened, and he began to laugh.

Jim was furious. “What? What is it? WHAT DID I MISS!?” He screamed, Sherlock’s laughter irritating him greatly.

“You.” Sherlock stated. “You know I don’t love you, but you think someone does. Wrong.”

Jim stared at him, fury coursing through his veins. “What do you mean?” He asked quietly, hating himself for thinking he loved Sherlock.


	25. Chapter 25

John was tempted to cry. Sherlock had yelled at him and shown John just how _stupid_ he'd been.  It was obvious to John that Sherlock knew how much of an imbecile John. But John realized now how hard it would be for Sherlock to put up with his stupidness. No wonder he'd left the apartment wearing the long coat he always looked so good in.

John sighed. He sat at the coffee table and picked up the phone Sherlock had been texting on. The number was the only one on contact, simply named ‘M’. Not Mycroft, Sherlock always referred to his brother as the elder Holmes; at least in the last week anyway. John became frustrated once more that he couldn’t figure out who he was, let alone Sherlock.

He read through the messages and his stomach sank lower and lower. Sherlock was going to meet Moriarty. That’s who the M stood for. John grabbed the phone and his own jumper, quickly hailing a taxi in the street. He needed to help Sherlock. If the man was as dangerous as Sherlock said, he may need help.

Within minutes he was heading for the hospital. It seemed a lot revolved around that place, Becca Moriarty was there, he'd been there after the memory wipe and now they were meeting on the roof. John shuddered. He was ten minutes behind at the least. The taxi finally arrived and he got out. People where everywhere and the streets where full of cars, waiting for parks.

John climbed through all the chaos, but stopped dead when his phone began ringing. It was a new tune - somebody had programmed a different number for their ringtone. It had to be Sherlock; nobody else had called him since the previous week.

“Sherlock? Where are you? Are you ok?” He yelled, struggling to find a clearing in the traffic so he could cross the road to the entrance of the hospital.

“John. Stay where you are.” Came the calm reply.

“What? Where are you?” He asked, frustrated when he could hardly hear Sherlock’s voice.

“Look up; I’m on the rooftop.” Sherlock said. John did, puzzled at the weird request, and saw Sherlock standing on the edge of the roof. His coat was blowing in the wind and he held his phone to his ear.

“Sherlock?” John asked cautiously. “What’s going on?”

“John, I... I’m going to jump.” Sherlock said, his voice cracking on the last word.

“No, NO, NO! Sherlock don’t! _Please!_ ” John screamed into the phone.

It was too late. John was too late. Sherlock threw the phone behind him, and dived.

It seemed like a lifetime before he smashed into the pavement. John remained frozen, the sound of Sherlock’s body smashing the pavement shuddering through his mind over and over again. He tried to get to him, but was knocked down by the steady flow of traffic.

In the distance he could hear someone screaming Sherlock’s name and realized that it was him. He managed to move across the road, ignoring the screeching cars. People where gathering around his friend, making it into a sick show. He lurched forward and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, not believing his best friend was dead. The deadline pulse confirmed his worst fear. People started pulling him away and he began screaming.

“I'm his friend, I’m a doctor! SHERLOCK! Oh god no…” He mumbled.

Nurses where wheeling him inside and he sat on the pavement sobbing. He had fought with Sherlock earlier and now Sherlock was dead. Minutes turned to hours and eventually two well-dressed men picked his motionless body off the pavement, and into a black car. Mycroft was in the back.

“I'm so sorry John.” He whispered, looking out the window.

John remained motionless, curled in a ball, half on the seat half off. He somehow was back in his bed, tucked in but not sleeping. The apartment was empty; no violin, no crashing of experiments.

Sherlock was gone. He sobbed into the night, not letting his stream of tears dry.


	26. Chapter 26

Something had spooked Jim and when he left at lunch suddenly, it gave Lilly cause for unease. Perhaps she had been found out? Did he know about the letter? Or maybe Lars had stuffed up? Lilly paced the house waiting for his return, but found after an hour that she knew he was not coming back.

Chances are he thought someone was watching him and had moved houses, leaving his things behind so as not to raise suspicions, but she had a weird feeling as one hour turned into several more. She was a patient person; she had proven this to Jim. Perhaps this was another exercise? A test.   
If so, she would pass.

At five that afternoon, a man showed up with video tapes at the backdoor. He gave them to her and scarpered. Lilly took them to her room. They were addressed to Jim but she'd never find out his business if she didn’t snoop. They were videos of 221B Baker Street. It showed Sherlock leaving around lunch, then John leaving a little while later.

She watched for ages, nothing was happening. Eventually she sped up the tapes and found in the last three minutes of recording something that made her stomach lurch. John was being dragged inside, he was limp and taking in everything but there were no obvious signs of being drugged. The men were dressed in suits. Government Issue.

Upon closer inspection, Lilly saw John had been crying. He was still crying. It would seem there was only one thing that could make John Watson cry. Sherlock Holmes. And something that caused that much grief to a person was consistent with death. She turned on the TV and caught the late afternoon news.

_....And in other news, an unidentified man committed suicide today; he jumped from the rooftop of St Bart’s Hospital. The death is not being treated as suspicious. The man was pale skinned, 6”2 with dark curly hair. If anyone knew the man - please call in....._

Lilly stilled her fast beating heart. Sherlock was dead, and John was crushed. It dawned on her that Jim had not yet returned home, so she called his mobile. No answer. There was but one answer to where her brother was. Hell. He was dead. Someone, most likely Sherlock, had killed him. Lily felt no grief. Only a sense of relief, she was free from him, free from doing what he wanted. She called Lars.

“Yes miss?” He answered.

“Go to St Bart’s, keep looking around there until you find my brothers body.” She said; no emotion in her voice.

''I know where he is, I watched him kill himself miss.” He said sheepishly.

“What do you mean watched him? And kill himself?” She asked sharply.

“My job was to kill John Watson if the tall man didn’t jump off the building. John took a cab to the hospital so I followed him. Mr. Moriarty and the tall man shared words then your brother used a handgun to kill himself. After he was dead, the tall man killed himself too.” Lars replied, uncomfortably through the phone.

“Go get his body!” She screeched before hanging up. Her brother had killed himself. How strange…

She'd have to leave immediately. Somebody was bound to make a connection between her brother and her eventually and who knew how lucky the cops where. They might already be coming to the house. Lilly grabbed her suitcase and the typewriter and had one of the security gaurds to put it in one of the cars. She dismissed them and left, her personal effects scattered over the front seat.

She would go on to be great. But for the next few years she would lie low; best to train alone in the shadows.


	27. Chapter 27

“You think Lilly loves you. Wrong.” Sherlock said simply, handing over her note to Moriarty.

If Moriarty was as smart as Sherlock, he would profile the letter immediately and understand that not only was she rebelling: she was killing Jim. Not consciously of course, but you could read her thoughts through the letter and it was obvious she hated him. Moriarty spent what seemed like millennia reading and rereading the letter.

“She hates you. Not love. It’s sad how easily you confuse the two. It’s your second mistake today.” Sherlock said, walking away a little to give Moriarty some room for the impending tantrum at being so wrong.

“Thank you. Thank you ... thank you, Sherlock.” Moriarty said quietly.

Sherlock turned and Moriarty took his hand and shook it firmly. It was Jim’s right hand he was shaking. Jim was left handed. Within milliseconds, Sherlock knew what he was doing and pulled his hand back to stop him. But it was too late. Jim had the gun in his mouth and was pulling the trigger. Sherlock was hit with some of the blood on his face and he hated the warmth of it on the windy rooftop.

Moriarty's corpse sunk to the ground. He couldn’t handle being outdone, so he'd killed himself. Sherlock took a step back and looked around the rooftop. He dialed Johns number after spotting him trying to cross the street.

“Sherlock? Where are you? Are you ok?” He yelled, struggling to find a clearing in the traffic so he could cross the road to the entrance of the hospital.

“John. Stay where you are.” Came the calm reply.

“What? Where are you?” He asked, frustrated when he could hardly hear Sherlock’s voice.

“Look up; I’m on the rooftop.” Sherlock said. John did, puzzled at the weird request, and saw Sherlock standing on the edge of the roof. His coat was blowing in the wind and he held his phone to his ear.

“Sherlock?” John asked cautiously. “What’s going on?”

“John, I... I’m going to jump.” Sherlock said, his voice cracking on the last word.

“No, NO, NO! Sherlock don’t! _Please!_ ” John screamed into the phone.

Sherlock ignored him and tossed his phone back onto the hospital. _No point an innocent civilian getting hit by the falling phone,_ he thought sadly. Even now he could see John’s assassin, his silenced pistol created a noticeable bulge to the trained eye.

Sherlock Jumped from the edge, thinking about birds of all things, smiling into the wind. He tried to watch John as he fell, but the wind forced his eyes closed. He hoped Molly had remembered everything, and he took a deep breath as he hit the pavement.


	28. Chapter 28

Lilly had betrayed Jim. He felt like his insides were tearing apart. He loved her and she had stabbed him in the back. All the pretending and the creeping round and the lies about the tampons, all to cover over her hate for him. He thought she understood him. But no. Sherlock had proven otherwise.

He had shaken Sherlock’s hand, it was pleasantly warm. Sherlock had showed Moriarty to be a fool twice now. First in letting him think that he was in love with him and second in proving that he really couldn’t distinguish between love and hate. His sister hated and feared him, and yet she'd remained close, acting her part perfectly, waiting and learning all she could. No doubt she would kill him as soon as she deigned herself to be ready to rule the underworld.

He crushed Sherlock’s hand in his when it started pulling away and tasted the metal barrel in his mouth. He smiled and Sherlock and pulled the trigger, ending a life of boredom.


	29. Chapter 29

John woke, realizing that he'd actually managed to get to sleep last night. He rolled over and found Mrs. Hudson, in a rocking chair, furiously knitting a scarf.

“Morning love.” She said quietly, rocking rhythmically. John found he'd been put in pajamas, and it looked later than he had first thought.

“What time is it?” He asked, getting up from the bed and feeling his stomach drop out beneath him as he remembered Sherlock jumping.

A tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another. He silently cried, standing in front of Mrs. Hudson, in his pajamas. If had been any other event, other than this tragedy, John might have laughed. But not today. Not when such a horrible thing had happened.

He left the room and ran a bath. Stripping off his clothes, he locked the door and got in. The water scalded his skin but he didn’t care. He submerged himself under the water and tried to numb himself to the emotional pain he was feeling. It seemed like he knew Sherlock better than himself and he could only remember a week of it.

His tears dried up and he lay in the steamy water, pouring over Sherlock’s every word from their last week together. He had met Moriarty on the roof and then jumped. Was Sherlock depressed? Sure, he was bored, but could it have been more than that?

John got out of the bath after an hour, dried off and got changed. Today he would travel the city, trying to find meaning in the seemingly pointless. He exited the apartment silently, listening first for the repetitive rocking. Mrs. Hudson would be fine. He wasn’t so sure about himself though. John hailed a cab, and shoved a few hundred pounds into the cabbie's hand.

“Anywhere, just keep driving.” He said before flopping dejectedly into the backseat.

The cabbie got the point and drove, turning random corners, seeming to head for a specific location before changing direction again. Mycroft said he would take care of Sherlock’s funeral plans. John let him; he was his family after all. In the end, Sherlock only thought of John as a flatmate. Probably.

John stopped for food, although he wasn't hungry. He bought the cabbie a sandwich too, and they ate in silence. John eyed the man wearily. He was short and hunched over against the west winds. He had a buzz cut and was in his late thirties. John's head screamed recently released felon, but he no longer cared.

For all he knew he could be being driven around by a serial killer and he still wouldn’t care. It was easier than being at the apartment, in the silence. It was lunchtime before John even thought of the address Sarah had given. He made the cabbie stop, and told him the address. He would go see the sister of the monster who had somehow gotten Sherlock to kill himself, the monster who sent the letter, and who hated her own brother so much.

He would torture her if he had to to get the information about Sherlock’s last moments out of her - to figure out how Moriarty got Sherlock to jump. It would be an hour before he reached the house and he anxiously wriggled in the seat, nervous and extremely angry at the same time. He would find his answer and then go to Sherlock. Enter into the pleasant abyss that death would become and meet his best friend at the gates.


	30. Chapter 30

It wasn’t hard to access her safety deposit box; it seemed nobody was looking for her yet. But they would soon. If not in questioning to her brothers disappearance, then in connection with her employee Lars' untimely fall from an abandoned warehouse roof. Lilly sighed as she went through the long lines in the airport.

She hadn’t wanted to kill Lars, but he was the only connection to her from the outside world and everyone had their price. Anybody could buy him out for information on her so she'd called him out to the warehouse as a supposed dump point for her brother’s body. When he didn’t reply to her message, she was forced to meet him there herself.

He'd explained her brother’s body was gone and Lilly had seen him for the incompetent Neanderthal he was. She'd released her fury and pushed him over the edge. She wouldn't ever get her brothers body back. But that was ok. It wasn’t as if the Moriarty's were a sentimental family.

She cleared customs and got on the plane. Russia was quite a long way but it was an easy place to begin her crime. And they had no extradition laws. She relaxed in her seat, glad to be free of England. The plane was safely up in the air when they began serving drinks and, boy, she was glad to have hers. It was a double shot martini. First class was always a pleasure.

She turned to the waiter, to get another, and found herself staring into the dead pools of black that she'd come to hate so fiercely. “No.” She whispered.

“Yes dear sister. Yes.” He replied.

She stared around the cabin in a panic but first class was empty aside from her and the monster before her. She tried to get up but he pushed her back down. She heard the familiar click of a blade, and her eyes widened. She let out a scream that was silenced with a smooth stroke of the freshly sharpened razor blade.

She looked down and watched in a trance as her heart pumped all her blood down her front, from her neck down, her chest and to her hips. She closed her eyes and stared at her disappointed parents.

“You got here too soon. You were outsmarted again; just as we were. Look, even Becca's here.” Her mother said in the brisk voice she'd retained since her and her brother where children.

Becca emerged out of nothing. “You fool. He slit my throat at the hospital; left me in a closet. Did you really think he would let me live?” She laughed.

Lilly screamed. She couldn’t be left in this place, with her dead family. She swiveled her head round quickly. Of course, she _was_ dead.


	31. Chapter 31

Sherlock had woken up on a morgue slab with Molly standing over him. “How long?” He croaked, getting up painfully, yet alive.

“Twelve hours.” Molly said chirpily. “You slept through the night.” She looked slightly dithery as Sherlock’s cognitive function returned fully. He bent his fingers, and cracked his knuckles.

“Full cognitive function restored...” He remarked, before stretching fully and standing up, doing some quick pulls. “... And no apparent broken bones.” He finished.

Molly nodded, and wrote it all down. “Thank goodness it worked!” She said. Sherlock dismissed the absurd remark.

“Molly, I would never leave my life to chance. It was guaranteed to work. This hospital is eight stories high and this would have worked at fifteen stories!” Sherlock said, annoying at his distrust in him. “I induced the coma on the rooftop. I had to hold out my arm for the needle to enter the correct vain. My body was limp and it cushioned the impact completely. Its known among many scientists that the only reason people break bones is because their tense. Being in a coma, it was impossible for me to tense up.” He said, adjusting his coat and wiping the fake blood from his head away.

Mycroft had delivered as promised. The men had splattered him in blood before John could see his unblemished body. They hadn’t been counting on John managing to fight through them to check his pulse, but Sherlock came prepared. As he removed his shirt and took the squash balls from underneath his armpits, he noticed Molly in the corner trying not to look at his shirtless body and turning bright red.

He looked down. Nothing was wrong with his torso, and yet she seemed embarrassed. He figured it was a girl thing and pulled back on his shirt, almost immediately the blushing faded and she could meet his eye again. How intriguing. He removed his shirt once more and the red returned to her cheeks. Incredible. He would have to experiment further later. It seemed when Sherlock was shirtless women would go crazy; Molly representing women-kind.

“Where is John?” He asked, pulling his coat back on as well, hiding his smirk.

“Not sure? Mycroft had some people take him off the pavement and back to the apartment. He was still crying when I checked on him in the night, even though he was asleep. I got Mrs. Hudson to watch him and came back here for you when you woke up.” She replied, looking concerned.

Sherlock pounced. “What the hell? Mycroft was supposed to tell him when the threat had passed!” Sherlock yelled, grabbing his scarf and stalking out through the swinging doors.

He would have to punish Mycroft later but for now, John needed him. He took a taxi to the flat, and heard the distinct rocking of Mrs. Hudson’s rocking chair upstairs in John’s room. He raced upstairs and slammed open the door. Mrs. Hudson was asleep and John was gone.

“Where is he?” He asked, as calmly as he could. John was missing, not knowing Sherlock was alive and in who knows what frame of mind.

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes flew open. “Sherlock? You… you’re dead!” She squealed, backing up against the wall.

“I assure you, I am not. Where is John? He doesn't know; Mycroft was supposed to tell him last night!” Sherlock yelled, riffling through Johns things. The money John was saving at the bottom of his sock drawer was gone, indicating John intended to leave for quite some time. “I'll explain later Mrs. Hudson. I have to find John.” Sherlock yelled as he ran down the stairs to hail a cab.

There is one only place Sherlock could guess that John would head; to Lilly's House. John would be angry and upset and he wouldn’t understand why Sherlock had supposedly killed himself. He would reach the house, hopefully, before John did something he would regret. 


	32. Chapter 32

Watching Lilly bleed out had been pleasant, but eventually Jim had to fold his blade back up and return it to his vest. He left the cabin, locked the door and then stripped his clothes in the bathroom before heading to the economy class. He would begin again in Russia. He had no family left in the world any more. And it was better that way.

In the end, his betrayals had been by the hand of his family: when his parents decided to send him to boarding school, when Becca played with John’s mind and when Lilly gave him up to Sherlock nnd then had tried to escape. But he'd gotten her.

He sat down amongst the throngs of British people who eyed him up. It was no doubt strange for them to see a man in a suit come from First class to sit in economy with the screaming children and air sick passengers. He ignored them and instead thought about the brilliance of his fake death. He could leave England undetected by Sherlock’s pesky brother Mycroft and he got to enjoy the split second look on Sherlock’s face when he thought Jim had blown his brains out.

Instead, it had been an empty cartridge and a mini explosion of pig brains hidden under a secure toupee on his head. Then all he and to do was lie still, listen to Sherlock say goodbye to John and watch from behind as he jumped.

Sherlock was dead, John was broken, Lilly was dead and Moriarty was healed; a new man. An invincible man. He would take Russia's crime world by storm and one day he would return to England.

One day.


	33. Chapter 33

John made sure the taxi drove away, before knocking on the door to the large house quietly. There was no reply, so he broke a window and unlocked it himself. The house was empty. He should have known. That’s what Sherlock had warned him. Lilly was from the Moriarty family, of course she would have left.

He punched the wall and screamed, falling to his knees. No he had no way of knowing why Sherlock had jumped, why he'd left John alone. Sadness coursed through John and he sobbed in a ball on the floor.

“John, it’s okay.” Sherlock said. His voice echoed through the now empty house.

“No! It’s not okay!” He yelled, not bothering to open his eyes. Sherlock was gone and now John was hearing his voice. He rolled onto his back and covered his ears, knowing and not caring that the voice wouldn’t stop when it was in his mind.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice yelled. John opened his eyes and took in the deathly pale detective, crouching in the corner watching him.

“Oh bloody hell.” He moaned, getting up and walking through the house. The projection of Sherlock followed John silently.

“John, why are you being like this?” He said in his irritated voice.

“You’re not real! You’re dead!” He screamed, whirling around and punching a wall.

His knuckles where skinned. He flopped onto an empty bedroom bed. The detective stood in the hallway. John lay on the bed, letting his knuckles bleed out onto the sheets.

“Oh Sherlock… why'd you do it?” He muttered, letting the tears fall and trying to ignore the imaginary image of Sherlock moving towards him.

“I didn’t.” Sherlock replied. John went still when Sherlock’s hand took his and smeared the blood.

“You’re not a ghost? You’re not an imagination? You’re real?” He asked quietly, tears streaming down his face. Sherlock nodded and John moaned.

“I thought you were dead.” He whispered. Deep sobs enveloped his body and he couldn’t help but cry out, and shake. Sherlock’s strong arms wrapped around Johns body, and stilled John.  John sighed. “Why? Why did you jump? Why did you let me think...?” He managed, before memories of Sherlock jumping and hitting the pavement resurfaced, stopping him talking.

“Moriarty had men following you; they'd have killed you if I didn’t jump. Mycroft was _supposed_ to tell you once the danger had passed, but he was being an arrogant dickhead and he didn’t.” Sherlock responded, talking into John’s hair. He lay down beside John, hugging him tightly. John was startled but didn’t resist. People would call him gay, but he didn’t mind. This was relief at seeing his best friend alive. He welcomed the hug.

“Is Moriarty dead?” He asked, the tears on his cheeks drying and pure exhaustion kicking in.

“No. He tried to fake his death, but I know the sound of a true gun. And pig brains. He thinks I think he's dead. In reality Mycroft is trailing him. Most likely Lilly's now dead and he's left the country.” Sherlock replied, his voice even.

John nodded. “Thank you.” John said after a while.

“For what?” Sherlock asked, completely confused.

“For the miracle.” John whispered.

“What miracle?” Sherlock asked.

“For not being dead.” John managed, pulling the rope he'd bought from his jacket pocket. It still had the noose tie. Sherlock groaned and pulled him even closer on the bed.

“I'm so sorry this happened John.” He mumbled, his voice deep and raw with emotion.

“I was going to come with you, follow you to the gates of heaven, or hell. It didn’t matter which one, as long as you were there.” John told him.

“And instead you followed me to an empty house in London.” Sherlock replied. John could hear the smile in his voice.


	34. Chapter 34

Sherlock pressed the needle to John’s neck before he could protest. The clear fluid was injected within seconds.

“What was that?” John asked irritated, rubbing his neck. Sherlock remained silent and pulled away. He got off the bed and stood up.

“What?” John asked.

“This might hurt John, but it’s necessary.” Sherlock replied, watching John.

John went quiet looked up at Sherlock, his pleading blue eyes begging Sherlock for a better answer. Sherlock almost went to comfort him when John gasped loudly, throwing his head back. He was shaking and his eyes were flicking rapidly, but it wasn’t a seizure; just a surge of information, something familiar for Sherlock, but painful for John. After only minutes he had stilled and was looking up at Sherlock with a weird look on his face.

“I remember.” He told Sherlock. The detective nodded.

“I figured out the formula before going up onto the roof. I realized all I needed was a sample of your blood, and that could be taken apart and turned into the genetic code you needed to regrow your memory. All I had to do was indicated this to Mycroft and he left it for me in my coat when he dropped me off in the taxi. Sorry, I knew it would hurt. Do you remember everything?” Sherlock ventured.

John nodded and then grinned. “Why'd you get off the bed?” He said, grinning wickedly before continuing. “That’s not what you normally do...” he said, getting up and pulling Sherlock down with him.

“I wanted to do this before I had my memories back.” John told whispered in his ear.

Sherlock blushed. “Before we become reacquainted, I'm going to perform an experiment.” Sherlock said, in the low voice that had previously driven John mad with want. John nodded, biting his lip. Sherlock stood up, and slowly removed his jacket, then his shirt, revealing his pale torso. Sherlock watched amazed as John blushed deeply.  “John, look at me.” Sherlock whispered. John raised his eyes and locked them with his own. “I missed you John, maybe you want to take it slow....” Sherlock managed, before John was there pulling him down on top of him, silencing him with his lips.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the blissful feeling flow through his body. John was his, and he was John’s.

_Just the two of us against the rest of the world._


End file.
